


Jinxed

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Jinx [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action/Adventure, Coming of Age, F/M, Friendship, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 103,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being rescued from Vault 87, Fawkes quickly realizes the ill-named Lone Wanderer is still in the process of becoming her destiny.</p><p>Eventual romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prime Numbers

He stares at the shadows on the wall, grey against the relentless red glare of the lights outside. Once again, he tries to keep calm. There is only so much ‘I Spy’ one can play with oneself in a small cell, but he has been trying to calculate prime numbers. He has gone as far as one thousand, one hundred and fifty-one before, but does not remember all the numbers intervening between that and two. He idly wonders if attempting to devise an equation to calculate prime numbers _for_ him would provide an interesting diversion, or if, once completed, it would simply rob him of the limited pleasure of something to think about. Intellectual pleasure is a rare commodity now that his terminal is destroyed.

So he starts again. He makes it as far as thirty-seven before hearing footsteps. Normally this would not concern him—hours, days, weeks can blur at a time in this cell. It would not surprise him if he had lost track of the guards’ schedule.

But this is different. Despite the dull weight of each footfall, there is a metal clank to it, and the sounds are sharper—less thick, less heavy—than those of his fellow meta humans.

He forces himself to reach forty-seven before allowing himself to hope.

By now, two figures are visible—two humanoid figures, plus a dog. Both of the people are wearing metal armor, thick scales and plating scarred with gashes and scorch marks that only come from heavy use. Despite this, the equipment is well maintained—functional, if not beautiful. The shorter of the two wears power armor of a different model than the tall one, blue crackles playing over the power pack strapped to the back. The eyes glow an ominous yellow as the short one tilts its head to examine him through the glass. The bulkiness of the armor does not allow him to guess at the owner’s build, but despite the person’s diminutive stature—possibly five feet, not even level with his chest—there is no doubt as to which of the two is in charge.

“Why would they imprison one of their own?” the small one asks, voice tinny and garbled through the metal helmet and filtered through the primitive intercom of his cell. It sounds vaguely feminine, though it could be a trick of the acoustics.

Her tall companion just grunts, shrugging. “I don’t like the looks of this place. We should keep moving.” His voice is coarse and grating, either naturally rougher or because his vocal synthesizers need a tune-up.

Fawkes’ heart jumps to his throat, so choked he become momentarily terrified that despite having dreamed of this moment for as long as he can remember… he might lose the words now that he needs them. So he calls, “Hello? Are you… quite real? A pure human?” Even to his own ears, his voice is thick, speech gone rusty with disuse.

“Yes. That’s me, alright. And who are you?” the small one asks, still tilting her head curiously. She taps futilely at the side of her helmet, shaking her head with displeasure while he responds.

“You actually care who I am?” he says with dull disbelief, feeling an unfamiliar ache across his cheeks. A smile. He must be smiling. “A surprise. I have lived most of my life in this cage being struck and beaten by the others.”

Finally, disgusted with whatever failure of sound quality she is experiencing through the helmet, the small woman lifts it from her head. Her hair is dyed brilliant scarlet, flaming like a sunset as if capturing what little light remains in this nightmare of a vault. While currently plastered to her head from the weight of the helmet, he notes that the sides are cropped short, only allowing a central plume to remain long, like the plumage of some exotic bird. Her other arresting feature is her eyes, pale blue and almost glowing with intensity. He does not miss their slight constriction and the twitchiness about their pupils. Despite her alertness, those could also be signs of chem withdrawal.

The rest of her is of relatively little note—dark skin, ambiguously brown and possibly descending from any of half a dozen blood ancestries. Thin face, somewhat haggard about the edges. Pointed chin, snub nose—mostly just _young_ looking. Her brilliant eyes, her hair, her youth—those are the major impressions he collects of her physical appearance.

It comforts him that her intelligence does not disappoint either. Grinning fiercely, she quips, “How ironic that the others consider you a mutant of their kind.”

He cannot help laughing, even if it is a pained sound that gurgles through his chest. “Yes. Indeed it is ironic. Forgive my astonishment, but I hadn’t expected to meet someone with such a learned outlook of these things.” Even while speaking, he cannot help feeling shame over how crude his voice sounds; he may have the vocabulary, but conversation is an art he has had little chance to practice, and he is keenly aware of the difference between her smooth silver patter and his slow, clumsy words. “It is a pleasant change. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It was only a matter of time before someone like you showed up for the GECK.”

He knows he struck home by her sudden snap to attention, eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing with intensity. Her lips thin briefly, biting back before quickly asking, “The GECK? You know what it is?”

“I know what it is. I know where it is, and best of all…” He allows himself a trace of pride, smiling. “I know how you can get your hands on it.”

“…why would you help me?” she whispers, and for a moment, all he can wonder is how did someone so young get so jaded, that an offer of help would cause such shock and confusion. It almost pains him to offer the deal he’s been planning ever since he gained enough cognizance to plot escape.

“Because you can help me.”

She just nods grimly, lips twisting into a wry grin. “Of course. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?” Her eyes shine bright as homing beacons in the dank shadows of the Vault. For a moment he thinks they look wet—but she blinks and the illusion is dispelled.

“It is a fair trade. Let me out of this place, please.” He means to leave it at just that, he really does—but just talking, exchanging pleasantries, feels like such an unexpected joy that it salts the wound of the previous days, months, _years_ of whatever eternity he has been down here. “I can’t take it anymore,” he howls, desperation clawing up through his throat. He slumps against the glass, palms flat against the wall of his cell as he stares down at her pleadingly. “I can’t even recall how long I’ve been here. Take me with you, and I’ll retrieve the GECK for you.”

“Why would I have difficulty getting the GECK?” she asks, fingers drumming against the device strapped to her wrist. With some wonder, he recognizes it’s a Pip-Boy.

“The chamber in which the GECK resides is absolutely flooded with radiation. It’s unlikely you’d survive very long. Myself, on the other hand, have surprisingly inherited a useful trait from my fellow meta humans,” he explains, fixing his gaze on hers. While well aware that most would call his kind ‘mutants,’ he hopes this appeal to their shared humanity will strike a chord. “I am highly resistant to radiation. Let me out of here, and I will place the GECK safely in your hands.”

She does not hesitate before asking “How do I get you out?”

After giving her the instructions to access the terminal controlling the cell doors, she looks up at him. Drums her fingers on her Pip-Boy, then reaches up to place one palm flat against the glass. Her fingers barely brush against the base of his wrist, a transient touch through the thick barrier.

“For the record, I was going to free you even without the GECK,” she whispers. Then she puts her helmet back on and lopes down the corridor, dog and tall man following.


	2. Parting Company

He has time to think about her odd comment, reflecting on the unexpected kindness of others. Then he hears a click, tumblers whirling through the metal door, and then their footsteps as they return. He steps out as soon as the door opens, breathing deeply through his nostrils. Even the stale air of the vault is fresher than the recycled environment of his cage.

”Finally! Freedom! True freedom! I cannot thank you enough for this gift!” he exclaims, almost delirious with joy. He turns slowly, hands tilted up as if to embrace the very ceiling. He imagines his spine flexing and decompressing as he allows himself to stand tall, free of the confines of his small cell. ”You have no idea how long I have pictured this moment in my mind….. and it feels far better than I’d imagined. Now follow me, and I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

“One moment, my good man,” she says, voice gone tinny and warbled through her helmet once more. “There are still more super mutants around, and I don’t think all of them will be as nice as you. Charon, do we have anything…?”

“A spare sledgehammer. If we must,” her companion says grudgingly.

Her voice is grave, leaving him to wonder if she is being ironic or serious as she responds, “Yes, we must.”

So he is handed a sledgehammer. Hefting the bulky weapon, he gives it an experimental swing to get a feel for its weight. It’ll do; not his preferred choice, but better than his bare fists.

“What’s your name?” she asks, holding some sort of modified plasma rifle against her side. He would like to take a closer look at it—it appears to have a few unique alterations that intrigue him—but this is neither the time nor place.

“Fawkes.”

She nods. “I’m Jinx. This is Charon and Dogmeat. In case it wasn’t obvious, Dogmeat is the dog.”

Charon does not laugh, so Fawkes keeps his own amusement at her need to clarify simply to a restrained smile.

The rest of their journey passes quickly; as Jinx suspects, several of his less intelligent brethren are roaming the halls. He has not had the opportunity to see his own reflection since… his mind scurries away from that thought. He has not had the opportunity to see himself in a while, but he can see his own hands, his arms, his form—and he recognizes the effect of the Forced Evolutionary Virus on the other meta humans. Little wonder that Charon was hesitant to trust him with more than a simple melee weapon; after having fought long and hard enough to acquire their armor’s scarred appearance, they must have learned to associate ‘mutant’ with ‘enemy.’

It makes Jinx’s trust of him all the more perplexing.

Particularly as she’s not an especially good fighter; her equipment is well maintained, yes; and she can certainly point and shoot, but he notices she prefers to hang back, letting Charon and Dogmeat (and himself, for that matter) engage while she approaches slowly, preferring to take stealthy shots and fade into darkness or behind a barrier. Even in the power armor, her style is more of a skirmisher or infiltrator. He reflects she must have only acquired the armor relatively recently.

Whatever she lacks in combat experience though, she compensates with dexterity and cleverness. She has an almost obsessive compulsion to check every terminal they pass, hacking codes and prying out whatever hidden secrets are buried in the machines. Locks are little more than shiny invitations, popping open with just a little coaxing from a bobby pin and her trusty screwdriver.

Charon endures her dallying in silence, his expression impossible to read beneath his armor. Fawkes is not so used to this, so asks,

“Why do you stop to examine everything?”

“Never know when it’ll be useful,” she mutters distractedly, stowing a plastic bag of Rad-Away in her pack. “Plus, morbid curiosity.”

“Over?” he asks, curious himself.

“How deep the nightmares go. The vaults were… They were never meant to save anyone,” she laughs, but the laughter is brittle on the edges. He imagines her eyes shining again, wet with unshed tears, glowing with mania to keep the sorrow at bay. “I should know. I met their designer.”

Impossible. The entire vault system was implemented over two centuries ago… but despite the edginess of her withdrawal symptoms, she speaks with quiet confidence of that fact. Fawkes is uncertain whether that should confirm or dispel his concerns about her sanity, but fears this is not the time nor place to ask.

Thankfully, she does not make more troubling admissions. Instead, they make it to the room before the irradiated corridors leading to the GECK. He immediately lopes off through the metal tunnels, knowing the green glow washing over him will do him no harm.  Jinx follows for a few feet, but the rapid ticking of the miniature Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy quickly dissuades her. He hears snatches of conversation between her and Charon, but most of it is lost through the distortions of the metal tunnel. Its narrow, labyrinthine confines bring disquieting echoes of his prolonged isolation, but it is bearable. He must only endure for a few minutes after all; a more than fair price for the gift of freedom. Finally, GECK in hand, he meets the odd trio once more.

Their conversation does not seem to have gone well—they are facing each other, Jinx’s arms squarely crossed in front of her. Charon is staring back impassively (or perhaps not? With the helmets on, it is so difficult to tell), while Dogmeat sits beside Jinx, tail thumping the ground. The dog has obviously chosen his side.

“As promised, here’s the GECK. I hope it’s worth it,” Fawkes adds hesitantly, unsure of how to approach this tense tableau. “Well, I’m afraid this is where you and I part company. I’ll find my way out of this place, don’t worry. Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere in the Wasteland.”

“You can’t come with me?” Jinx quickly asks, uncrossing her arms and turning to face him.

“I apologize.” Fawkes surprises even himself with the regret in his voice. Strange as the young woman is, she was a welcome change from his normal visitors. “I’m afraid a super mutant wouldn’t be welcome in the places you frequent. All I’d do is cause you undue attention and probably get you killed.”

And because he worries she might change his mind, he swiftly turns, racing out through the vault.


	3. Suicide Mission

He is amazed at how familiar the vault feels; without even thinking about it, he knows which way to turn to reach the stairs, a faint tickle in the back of his mind as he considers which doors once led to the infirmary, or the science labs—

The science labs bring back disquieting echoes, dull pain without true memory to back it up. Fawkes suspects from the remnants of his own tattered Vault suit that he must have been a resident of Vault 87, before being altered by the FEV into his current state.

Perhaps, if he had truly been one of the _original_ residents, he himself might be over two centuries old. It is a shame he does not remember anything beyond his cell, even if he has this ghost-map memory of the vault’s layout, much like the mental map that enabled him to bring Jinx the GECK.

Though perhaps if he himself is considering being over two hundred years old, he should not sneer at Jinx’s comment on meeting one of the original Vault-Tec designers. While unlikely, there are possibilities; mutation, neural uploads, simulations…

At least these are more interesting considerations than trying to remember what prime number came before one-thousand one hundred and fifty-one.

Once at the first level, he reconsiders his route. The main vault entrance (and exit) looks as if it leads through a densely populated area containing more of his meta human brethren, most of them heavily armed. He risks a glance through, but realizes most of them are running, moving down the pass. He hears explosions, the sizzle of lasers and plasma—the sounds of battle. Something is coming up, and the super mutants are engaging it. This doesn’t look like a safe path, but Jinx and her companions must have come by another route. He does not remember another exit, but perhaps…?

Operating on a hunch, he sweeps back through the first floor. Knowing Jinx and her habits, he looks for areas that seem suspiciously picked clean of valuable or interesting equipment, for unlocked drawers and computers where the passwords have been deciphered.

He is rewarded when he discovers the metal wall that slides to reveal a large cave, and grins. Sliding through, he hears laughter—children’s laughter? Incredible to believe that there could be children here; he suspects it must be an old tape set on replay. But when he emerges, blinking, into an immense cavern strung with white lights, he quickly realizes most of its residents are barely waist-high to him.

 _Children_.

A boy wearing an oversized helmet with goggles on it scowls ferociously at his approach, reaching for his rifle with an easy familiarity that belies the mismatched nature of his equipment. “Hold it right there, greenie!”

Slowly, Fawkes lowers his sledgehammer. He might be able to attack, yes, but the idea of killing a child, even one that is threatening him, makes him ill at ease. And even if he were to kill the small boy, where would he go from here? Instead, he speaks slowly, trying to make himself sound as civilized as possible. “Please, sir. I mean you no harm.”

The boy’s eyebrows rise, disappearing under the oversized helmet, but it does not dim his ferocity in the slightest. “Stay in line and everything will be a-oh-fucking-kay. Did the mungo send you?” he demands.

“Mungo? Do you mean Jinx?” Fawkes asks. He does not know what the term ‘mungo’ means, and doubts it is terribly respectful… but then again, Jinx _must_ have come through here in order to reach Vault 87…

“Yeah, that’s the lady.” The child’s eyes are guarded, teeth bared in a possessive snarl.

“She set me free, so yes.”

“So where’s Jinx?”

The prickly child sounds genuinely concerned for her; a testament to Jinx’s knack for making unexpected friends. “In the Vault, last I saw. She and Charon appeared to be discussing something.”

The boy curses under his breath, and then narrows his eyes into a glare. “Fine. We’re giving her another hour, then we’re closing the door and shutting the juice. We don’t need any more muties coming through. Get outta Little Lamplight and we’ll call it quits.”

“I would be happy to leave if you will show me the way out,” Fawkes pleads, hands still up. “If I may retrieve my weapon…?”

“Sure, but I’m keeping an eye on you.”

Bending slowly, trying to make each motion as nonthreatening as possible, Fawkes picks up his sledgehammer.

Another small child appears, carrying a battered laser rifle, and takes position by the entrance to Vault 87 at the boy’s orders. While she lacks the tightly-coiled aggression of the first child, there is a wariness to her posture, coupled with the small calluses on her hands and faint lines about her eyes, that indicate she is also no stranger to battle. Realizing the boy must hold a position of authority around here, Fawkes tentatively asks, “May I have the honor of your name?”

“Honor’s all yours, mutie. I’m Mayor MacCready, and I’m in charge of this little slice of paradise. You mess with any of us and I’ll blow your head off.” Foul-mouthed and foul-tempered as the young mayor might be, Fawkes decides that’s no idle threat.

“I am Fawkes. Might I ask how Jinx managed to earn your trust?”

“Fox? Huh. Weird name for a mutie. Jinx isn’t so bad for a mungo. Three Dog yammers about her all the time on the radio, and she rescues people ‘n shit like that. She’s more like a kid at heart.” Behind those words is a measure of grudging respect. “But enough chit-chat. We’re getting your green ass out of here.”

“Hey, MacCready! There’s another one!” the little girl with the laser rifle whispers. Metal-shod footsteps are echoing through the passage, and Charon emerges carrying Dogmeat. The dog is growling, snapping futilely at the metal suit and squirming in an effort to get free.

“Close the door,” the man growls.

“Where’s Jinx?” MacCready demands.

“Close the door unless you want Enclave soldiers pouring in,” Charon snaps. “They grabbed Jinx and the GECK, and are leaving down Murder Pass.”

MacCready swears a blue streak, immediately typing in the terminal commands to lock the door. With a scowl, he powers down the door mechanisms, leaving it an inert lump of metal once more. Once the door is shut, Charon sets the dog down. Dogmeat immediately starts digging futilely against the door, howling in dismay.

“Shut the dog up! Enclave took Jinx?” MacCready continues, looking as if he just might start firing at Charon out of sheer spite.

Charon shakes his head, removing his helmet—and Fawkes realizes with shock that Charon is a ghoul after all, his raw voice disguised by the helmet’s distortion—and says, “You try shutting the dog up. Enclave took her, yes.”

“Where to?” Fawkes asks, voice tight.

“I don’t know. Best bet would be somewhere to the north—we already mapped most of the territories elsewhere. It’s not like an Enclave base would be easy to miss,” the ghoul rasps, decaying lips pressed tight.

“So much for the fucking hero of the Wastes…” MacCready groans, shoulders slumping. But then he glares at both Charon and Fawkes again. “You two freaky mungoes aren’t welcome here without Jinx. You both get out.”

Charon forms a lipless smile, far too many teeth showing. “Agreed.”

Fawkes follows listlessly behind Charon, Charon leading the way to the entrance of Little Lamplight. Dogmeat trails dejectedly behind, still giving a mournful howl on occasion, while MacCready brings up the rear. Fawkes strongly suspects the rifle is aimed at both him and Charon, waiting for either of them to step out of line.

If the situation weren’t so alarming, Fawkes thinks he might enjoy this brief glimpse of Little Lamplight—for a community that’s entirely underground, it appears to be doing quite well. The presence of so many children—the oldest no more than fifteen, perhaps sixteen—at first delights him, filling him with wonder, then it perturbs him. What happened to their adults? Who cares for them, other than older children who they themselves should have caretakers…?

Is that why Jinx had been accepted? Old enough to provide guidance, young enough to be trusted?

As much as he is amazed by his new surroundings, his very presence is a cause for similar amazement among the children. Charon stoically ignores all the whispers and pointed fingers, though perhaps it is simply easier to show no emotion when one’s features have sloughed away. For his part, Fawkes feels ill at ease, his sledgehammer trailing almost to the earth as he tries very hard to look as nonthreatening as possible. It does not work; when he looks up to examine the lights strung overhead, his gaze inadvertently locks with that of a small girl in pigtails. She immediately gives a startled cry, ducking behind a boy scarcely several years older than her. Fawkes immediately turns his attention to the floor in front of him, half-expecting a bullet from McCready for accidentally frightening the child.

“Keep it moving, mungo,” the mayor barks behind him. “I saw that, but that’s your freebie.”

Fawkes has no intention of testing that.

The light is blinding when they finally emerge from the little underground town. Fawkes blinks, groaning as he shields his eyes. Blinking in the open air feels strangely oppressive, as if the very emptiness of the bleak sky might press down at any moment, crushing him to the earth under the sheer weight of unfathomable atmosphere.  Dogmeat simply lolls his tongue, and Charon waits a few brief moments before tersely asking, “What are your plans, greenskin?”

“I…” Fawkes feels his mouth go dry, not having thought that far ahead. “I could help you rescue Jinx, if you like.”

“No need. I’m not rescuing her.”

Fawkes blinks, feeling his mouth swing open. “I thought you two were…?”

“She was my employer. Not my friend. And if the Enclave has taken her, they have gone where I cannot follow,” the ghoul says impassively.

“But she… would she have rescued you?” Fawkes asks, unable to resist probing. It is like a wound he cannot resist picking, both afraid and determined to see how far the damage goes.

“Most likely. The world will be a poorer place for her absence, but I am not her.” Despite the ghoul’s stoic demeanor, Fawkes glimpses something—perhaps a twitch in those sunken eyes, or a tightening along the exposed muscle of his cheek—that implies there is something else there, something he isn’t seeing. But he lacks the tools to understand, and just groans futilely.

“Fine. I will, then,” he says, impulsively. Because it is a harsh world out there. Because a town full of abandoned children trusts Jinx. Because the world would be a poorer place without her, and even her own loyal traveling companion won’t stage a rescue…

“Suicide mission. But if you have to, then here.” The ghoul passes over several pouches of something light and rattling. When he opens one, curious, he finds an assortment of bottle caps. “Currency. A hundred caps per bag. You can get supplies. Plus here’s some food. And a rifle. All I can spare on my way back to Underworld.”

“Underworld?” Fawkes asks, still somewhat at a loss. Charon does not _seem_ suicidal, but perhaps this is some sort of strange grieving?

“Ghoul city. In the Museum of History—we could take you in a pinch as well, if you get tired of being shot at by smoothskins. I’m going to drop the dog off at Megaton.” Briefly, Charon gives directions on how to reach the ghoul settlement, with instructions on wending through the metro system. “We’ve cleared out most of the feral ghouls and Raiders lurking in the area, but there are always new ones moving in.”

Again, Fawkes reflects on this oddity—Jinx and Charon must have been clearing out hostile forces, keeping the roads and paths safe for travelers. The world would be poorer for her presence; they have an easy camaraderie in combat, familiar with the other’s strengths and moving around one another, but they aren’t friends…?

“Thank you,” he remembers to say, dipping his head in gratitude. The lanky ghoul just gives a brief nod of acknowledgement before taking off with a casual, loping run to the east. The dog whines in confusion, looking between Fawkes and Charon, and then chases after Charon. Fawkes looks about, blinking in confusion at the assorted remnants of a long-abandoned theme park. It is dissonantly cheery in this grey, sunlit landscape.

Remembering Charon’s suggestion, he starts moving to the north, and is rewarded with the sight of distant vertibirds. Encouraged, he starts taking off in a run. It feels good to finally have a chance to stretch his legs, his cell having offered limited exercise opportunities. He knows it must be the FEV in his system that makes this feel easy, the distance rapidly devoured under his muscular legs. He moves easily, freely, exulting in the luxury of movement.

Still, a vertibird moves more quickly than a meta human. Even when it vanishes to little more than a speck, he keeps its location fixed in his mind, moving towards it unrelentingly. The landscape conspires against him at times; he must circle around a copse of trees, or work his way around a cliff face. Once he sees the distant stinger of some sort of mutated scorpion, and instinct tells him to steer clear. Even with his sledgehammer and the hunting rifle Charon gave him, he does not wish to risk an encounter with the wildlife. Any spare energy should be spent on Jinx’s kidnappers.

He continues doggedly on his path, eyes straining to glimpse another vertibird or, perhaps, a squad of Enclave soldiers. Judging from the combat he had heard from the vault entrance, they must be well-equipped; he is searching for figures in more power armor, but instead spots a small caravan of brahmin and traders. He slows, shifting course to approach them at walking speed with his hands cautiously extended in greeting. Aware that his appearance alone can be quite frightening, Fawkes tries to keep his arms away from his weapons.

“Hello there! Have you seen the Enclave pass through?” he shouts, trying to stay as comfortably far away as will allow for conversation.

The traders eye him warily, guards and merchants alike with their hands at their pistols or rifles, but one finally speaks.

“Yes. A vertibird was flying northwest. Spotted it about thirty, maybe forty minutes ago,” a man with a coarse moustache offers. “What’s it to you?”

“I am seeking a friend they took,” Fawkes replies carefully, standing his ground.

“Who would be friends with a super mutant?” Despite the hostile edge to that question—and the fact that the man is still fingering his pistol—Fawkes thinks there is more curiosity than malice, so he answers.

“A young woman with red hair. Jinx—“

“Jinx? The _Wanderer_ needs help?” the man asks. His eyes are wide, face blanched. For a mad, frantic moment, Fawkes wonders if he should be reaching for his hammer, or simply trying to run for it, but then the man approaches him. In fact, several of the caravan-traders are talking amongst themselves, faces pale and drawn. “What happened to her?”

“I was told Enclave forces took her. I am trying to stage a rescue,” Fawkes says, shifting uneasily at this unexpected response. Just who is Jinx?

“The fucking _Lone_ _Wanderer_ ,” the man breathes. He immediately starts rummaging through his goods. “What do you need, greenie? I don’t have the balls or the guns to take on the Enclave, but if you’re ballsy enough to do it, I’m giving you my best.”

“And mine. Her book, it helped my kids get three square meals a day…” a woman chimes in, her hair the color of straw and nearly as brittle.

“She rescued me from _super mutants_. Damn irony to give a mutant toys to go rescue _her_ …” the man with the moustache mutters. “But here we are. I’ve got guns, I’ve got some food, I’ve got chems…”

Fawkes blinks, abruptly at a loss for words. “This is… most unexpected kindness. Thank you—“

“Go rescue the Wanderer, and it’s all even,” the mustached man growls. “She gave me my fucking life, _and_ enough bullets to survive long enough to get this job. What kind of guns do you shoot?”

“I have a rifle…” he says uncertainly.

“Against boys in power armor? Brahmin shit,” the woman snorts. “Here. I got an old Gatling laser. Kind of shoddy, but if he’ll repair it…”

“You fucking bet I will, and I’ll throw in some electron charge packs.”

Weak with both relief and confusion, Fawkes reaches for the pouches that Charon gave him. “Please. I know this is not enough, but…”

“It’s dirt cheap for a Gatling laser, but we’ll take it,” the man with the moustache mutters, already tightening screws and testing parts on the boxy-looking gun. They strap the battery pack to Fawkes’ back, adjusting the straps and fussing over him in a way that makes Fawkes understand that this is not for _him,_ but for Jinx-by-proxy. They might not like or trust a super mutant, but for Jinx…

She’s saved lives. She’s given hope.

She would have rescued him even without the GECK.

Even if this is just a suicide mission, him against the entirety of the Enclave base—she deserves it. And even if it’s just him, the aid—caps, weapons, ammo—of those she’s touched are rippling back, karma returning to its originator.


	4. Simple As Breathing

She is running out of Vault 87; much as she had fled Vault 101, there are only dark shadows and clawing uncertainties down here for her now. Her footsteps echo down the empty halls, a staccato rhythm in syncopation with her own heartbeat, never loud enough to drown out the screaming uncertainty now in her mind...

Too late, she realizes Dogmeat is growling. Charon slows his footfalls behind her, and then..

A white flash. She's down, hitting the floor with a sick thud. Enclave forces in power armor are closing in….

Dogmeat must have escaped. Or perhaps he's concussed too, and unable to defend her. Charon...? She does not know if he is similarly incapacitated, or perhaps ran away. Either way, she is alone.

Abandoned.

That's her last thought before slipping into the warm darkness.

* * *

 

"So. You’re awake. Let’s keep this nice and simple. You’re going to tell me the code for that purifier, and you’re going to tell me now.

She recognizes the voice, even filtered through the mush of her headache. It is a distinctive, oily voice with a Southern drawl. As she blinks her eyes open, she recognizes him. A familiar, hated face, a man with fleshy features and slicked down grey hair, as if covering a bald spot.

“This is some kind of mistake. You’ve got the wrong person," she croaks, mouth dry and foul. He _must_ have the wrong person. The person... the person she'd thought she was had been Charon's friend. This must be all some immense mistake.

“You really think I’m that stupid? I know you were there. I saw you.” Threats, meaningless, empty—because of the knowledge in her head. She knows that much. Maybe if she plays along a bit, she’ll see what happens. But there is no way she is going to cooperate with him; not with the man responsible for her father dying right in front of her.

“Why do you want this code so badly?” she asks, feeling her lips crack with the effort of speech.

He speaks slowly, arrogantly, as if lecturing a stupid child. It does little for her mood. “You know why. We can’t start the purifier without it. The longer the purifier isn’t running, the more people suffer. Now I’m running out of patience, son. I want that code, and I want it now.”

Jinx fights to restrain a peal of completely inappropriate laughter, but it knifes up her throat, escaping in a hacking fit. She knows her hairstyle is hardly ladylike, but really? ‘Son’? She’s not even wearing the bulky power armor anymore—but at least she’s in her skivvies, thank goodness for small mercies—and even if she barely fits an A-cup, she’s still a _girl_ , dammit…

This will make a funny story to tell… well, not Charon. Maybe Butch, if she ever gets to see him again. Or Nova; Nova would laugh right along.

Autumn does not find her coughs amusing though, so she wheezes her way towards a reply.

“The code is 7-0-4.” The lie comes easily from her cracked lips. Fourth of July— Independence Day. Is today Charon's independence, free of her and the contract? Is he celebrating her death even now?

“Very well. We’ll just verify that.”

He speaks to a speaker device, entering the code, attempting to confirm it—and with some grim satisfaction, Jinx hears that they lost ‘another’ man. At least one more Enclave soldier is dead because of her, even if she didn't get to pull the trigger.

“Why must you make things difficult? Maybe I should start shooting. How much blood do you think you can afford to lose before you tell me what I want to know?”

Briefly, Jinx considers the calculations. From her father’s medical books (‘ _Father, father—everything comes down to daddy issues, doesn’t it?_ ’ a mocking voice whispers in her head, but she can’t listen to her demons right now) she knows a person could lose approximately one-third, perhaps up to forty percent of their blood volume before death. The average body contains between 8 and 10 pints of blood, and she is on the small side, so perhaps she could lose…

“Colonel, I have need of you!” comes the plummy voice over the intercom, calling away the guard dog. He abandons her with a growl, leaving her with the disconcerting voice on the speaker.

“Alone at last! I do apologize for Col Autumn’s attitude. He has been under a great deal of stress. I’m sure you know who I am; surely you have heard my radio broadcasts?” Jinx does not reply, which is just as well; the voice does not bother waiting for a response. “I must have a word with you, my dear. I am sure we have a few things to discuss. Your possessions are in the locker, and I will unlock the way. I will unlock your restraints as well.  I’ll be waiting for you in my office. Please don’t tarry.”

Rubbing her wrists, Jinx allows herself a quick swig from one of her carefully hoarded rations of purified water. Just enough to wet her throat and lips, though she vows to take advantage of her ‘host’s’ hospitality and grab as much water as she can. Surely an advanced technological fortress such as this should have _plenty_ of clean water. She dresses quickly, already missing the familiar help of Charon buckling her in, reaching that last armor lock that she always has difficulty with…

Well, she can always suit up on her own again. Or go back to wearing Talon combat gear.

With that cheerful thought, she leaves her small cell.

However, after being accosted by a guard, Jinx quickly realizes who the real authority is. And she already royally pissed him off.

She does not _mean_ it to become a murderous rampage, not really—but on her own in a hostile facility, most of the guards firing at her on sight, even the scientists running around with laser pistols… her reflexes kick in. She might not be as good a shot as Charon, but she can easily hack terminals and computers, disabling robots and turning turret systems against their owners. Her plasma rifle _(thank you, Harkness, for the lovely gift_ ) is in significantly better condition than most of the soldiers’ she runs into, and truth be told… it is somewhat cathartic. Even when she hisses and nearly screams, feeling the flesh singe under the heavy metal armor. Even when she forces a jab of Med-X (and here, she remembers Charon lecturing her on the dangers of addiction, telling her to lay off the Mentats… the Mentats that make everything so clear and crisp, she bet she would never have mistaken their contract for ‘friendship’ if she was still chewing Mentats) into her leg, huddled against a bed in an out of the way set of sleeping quarters, it feels better than that shock of Charon insisting that he is nobody’s errand boy, because she had never _meant_ to treat him that way…

And then a disgruntling encounter with Anna Holt… and much against her wishes, Jinx lets her go. And loots Col Autumn’s room too, slashing the bed and throwing ripped containers of snack cakes and Cram everywhere. Pouring Nuka Cola and water over the resulting mess. Just to piss him off. She’d like to say it was part of a bigger plan, to keep him upset and off-balance… but truth be told, it’s personal now. Both for killing her father, and for forcing her to... what? Realize Charon had never been a friend?

She can't blame Autumn for that, much as she'd like to. That was solely her own stupid trusting fault.

The rest of the escape passes in a mad haze; she really should be more shocked to discover President Eve is only a computer, really should be throwing away that little vial of FEV as soon as she gets the chance, and really should be caring more about the layout of Raven Rock, reporting whatever scant information she can to the Brotherhood... but Jinx is flying free, soaring off her disappointment and childish desire for vengeance. To hurt the world as badly as she feels hurt.

When she finally emerges into the sunlight, blinking—so like her own frantic escape from Vault 101—she finds an unfamiliar—and most welcome—sight.

Fawkes. Who’d have thought it?

He is blasting away with a Gatling laser, the red energy beams sizzling away at more Enclave troops. She taps her helmet, calling out to let him know it’s her, and not another Enclave goon in Tesla armor.

“Fawkes!”

“My friend! I’ve found you at last!” he calls, grinning ear to ear. Even with the strangeness of his green features, it is a beautiful sight. _Friendship_. He is the first in the Wasteland to announce it, and go seeking to help _her_ , and not the other way around?

Charon is nowhere to be found. Not that she was expecting him.

“I knew you had survived, and I had hoped to assist in your rescue to repay my debt to you,” the Super Mutant explains, oblivious to her churning emotions. Not that much is visible through her 'borrowed' Tesla helmet.

“Looks like you’ve got a new toy, huh?” she finally asks, dimly aware she needs to keep up one end of the conversation.

“Yes… and a most fascinating one at that. This technology is amazing. Imagine the evil that can be eliminated with such tools!” She nearly blinks back tears at his words. He is still idealistic, as only a good person can be in this crazy world. To see a weapon, and think of the bad things that could be destroyed with it... not for personal gain or defense, but to eliminate evil as a goal in itself?

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Hopefully he'll mistake the choked sound for disbelief.

“I heard of your capture, and a little cleverness allowed me to follow your captors. I only wish I could have arrived sooner to aid in your rescue. As I owe you my freedom, I felt it was only fair that I return the favor. After all..." Here, his voice catches, bluster and cheer unable to mask the hollowness of his words. "I know no-one else in this world.”

There is no need to think over the implicit offer. She has known too much loneliness.

“I could always use a hand. Would you like to follow me?”

“My friend, I would be honored to follow a hero such as yourself. Shall we go?"

Easy as that. Simple as breathing, difficult as living.

She has a friend. Not an employee.


	5. Doing What's Right

He is irrationally disappointed that she has already freed herself, but objectively, he knows it shouldn’t surprise him—while the others may have called her ‘the Wanderer,’ he also has heard the title ‘ _Lone_ Wanderer.’ Even if she travels (or traveled, considering Charon’s rather blasé attitude to her capture) with Charon, Charon is not the one people remember.

It is her.

But still, she is weak and weary—even with the advanced armor providing additional support he can tell she is shaky. She no longer moves with the quick, purposeful strides that she had used in scouting the Vault, but with a slight tremor to her legs, each step taking a little longer than it should.

“Do you need assistance?” he shouts, fighting to make himself be heard over the noise of the self-destructing base. She shakes her head, features masked under the helmet, but then nearly slips down the embankment. Her helmet masks the sound of her swearing, but he recognizes the way her fist slaps the ground in impotent rage.

“Sh… Just need to hole up and rest,” she mumbles. “I talked the computer into blowing up the base. The Enclave will be too busy dealing with that to chase us… if we just can make it to a friendly camp, or even just an abandoned house…” Her speech slurs about the edges, sentences and words trailing into one another.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“No. Gotta be able to fight, just in case. I got… I got stimpaks. We just need to make it to a safe place…” She talks just a little too quickly now, words rattling through the mouthpiece. “Look,” she insists, pointing to her Pip-Boy. He does not understand the interface until she points. “No red dots that direction. No hostiles. We can make it. Even if we just hole up in an old bus for a little while, that’s all I need.”

So he fights the urge to protect her, to carry her like a child—because she insists. It would be patronizing and disrespectful, even if he does it with the best of intentions. Perhaps especially if done with the best of intentions.

Instead, he sweeps ahead, keeping an eye out for hostiles and offering her an occasional hand whenever her steps get too stumbling. While the occasional rifle shot goes their way, the majority of the Enclave forces are too busy trying to regain control of Raven Rock to pay attention to a super mutant fleeing the scene, or the unusually small figure in power armor.

The battery pack on his back is a comforting weight, one that emblemizes both defense—truly, this marvel is a _much_ better weapon than either the sledge or the hunting rifle—and scientific reason turned to practical application. Even if war never changes, at least he can feel more civilized than simply smashing away at whatever foes cross their path.

There is a fenced enclosure on a rise ahead, and she surges toward it with renewed vigor. Unfortunately, it turns out to be an ancient power station, the fenced enclosure having no true cover or habitable dwellings. She mutters disappointedly under her breath, then, as if operating out of reflex, examines the skeletal remains inside. Fawkes briefly wonders at her scavenging nature, but reflects that from what he has seen, tools and equipment are in short supply. While perhaps a bit macabre, these habits have served her well.

She pulls a dark cola bottle from a toolbox and flips through a battered copy of Dean’s Electronics. Removing her helmet to reveal a grin, she pops the top off the soda, carefully stowing the cap away in one pocket of her backpack. “Ah. Refreshment, and a little light reading. What more can a girl ask for? Look, this place isn’t ideal, but at least we can watch for trouble. I could use a breather, and get the stimpak going. Want a Nuka?”

The word evokes faint memories of sweetness, so he nods. She pulls another bottle from her immense pack, popping the top before passing it. He sips slowly, savoring the sugary fizz on his tongue.

“I’m going to need a little help getting out of my gear,” she adds, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Usually Charon helps me with the heavy armor, but…”

“I understand,” Fawkes says quietly, trying to minimize the awkwardness of the situation. This is the first time she mentioned her companion’s name, and he wonders if she knows…

She must. Despite the worried slant of her eyebrows and the way she bites her lip, there is reluctance as she asks, “Charon. Is he…? Did he make it out all right? What about Dogmeat?”

Pausing, he tries to think of the best way to answer that both gently and truthfully. “Charon and Dogmeat are unharmed, last I saw. He provided me some equipment and left for Underworld. He said he would drop Dogmeat off in Megaton.”

“Well, at least they’re both okay,” she mumbles. “Look, I can get the arms and legs, but there’s a buckle to the back… Ah, there,” she sighs with relief as Fawkes unfastens her out of the armor. She wears a thin layer of dark under-armor beneath the metal plates, but does not need any more help there. She rolls down the waistband almost to her thighs, and he averts his eyes. Even if she does not seem to care, _he_ does. He hears a soft groan of relief as she injects the stimpak.

“Good. Better already,” she sighs. “Just give me ten, fifteen minutes to let it get circulating, and we’ll be good. I figure we can schlep back to… hm. Maybe Big Town. Closest friendly settlement I can think of, and then it’s just a short ways to Megaton. I want to get Dogmeat back.”

He risks looking back at her. The flesh is already knitting together, new skin pink and shiny and healing to scar-less perfection before his very eyes. He also cannot help noticing older scars, some that had to have healed without the aid of stimpaks—and will remain forever imbedded on her flesh, faint reminders of past encounters.

She catches him looking, and her lips quirk up in a half-smile. “Flesh heals. Easiest kind of scars to fix.”

“I meant no disrespect,” he demurs, turning away again. “You are obviously a well-respected warrior, and have collected the trophies to match.”

“Scars as trophies, huh? I like that, in a sort of barbaric way. Makes me feel like I crawled out of an old comic book,” she chuckles.

He is unsure what to say to that, so tries a different tactic. They are still too new to each other to be completely comfortable in silence, and he has far too many questions about this strange world he has found himself in. Bits of news filtered through the radio or chatter amongst his jailors does not constitute a working knowledge of current events. “Who exactly are the Enclave, and why were you so important to them?”

“As far as I can figure, they are a fascist military regime who operates under the assumption that they are the rightful remnants of the American government,” she responds flippantly, eyes closed as she leans her head back. He is struck by the smoothness of her throat, the tender unmarked skin oddly vulnerable in contrast to her scars and wild hairstyle. “And forget any random Wastelanders or mutants. We’re not ‘American’ enough for them. And I just discovered that their so-called President Eden is a giant computer.”

She recites it so easily he wants to believe her, but hesitates. “A computer?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” Jinx chants, tapping an index finger against her closed eyelid. “Crazy, I know, but I met him. It. Good thing my knack with machines worked on him too.”

“Why would they elect a computer as a political leader, even a figurehead?”

“Good question.” She opens her eyes now, crinkling her eyebrows as she gives an elaborate shrug. “I am guessing because they could program a completely soothing and wholesome-sounding personality to be a figurehead, without worrying about all that messy free will and actual _decision_ making. Then again, what measure is a non-human?” she states rhetorically, heedless of the sudden lurch in Fawkes’ chest. “Any sufficiently advanced artificial intelligence, capable of self-determination and a moral code, qualifies as human in _my_ books.”

 _No wonder she accepted me so easily_ , he reflects, both perplexed and reassured by her depth of consideration on the topic.

“Surely they did not seek to capture you just for your dangerously liberal views,” he says quietly, attempting to match her light tone. Coming from his guttural throat—still unused to practicing speech—the effect is somewhat lost.

She smiles anyway. “Oh, they wanted me for my dangerous knowledge instead. My father…” Her voice trails off, and she looks dangerously like a lost girl, eyes wide and staring off into space. Swallowing hard, she continues. “My father was working on a project to purify water for the Wasteland. The Enclave decided such a wonderful thing couldn’t _possibly_ be controlled by a bunch of Wasteland savages, so… they did what all fascist regimes do. They took it by force.” She smiles bleakly, the expression utterly incongruous with her words. “I had to watch my father die. But the joke’s on them— _they_ don’t know the code to get the purifier up and running, even if they have the GECK.”

Jinx giggles now, the sound sharp-edged and brittle. He notices a tremor in her hands now, palms shaking as she stashes the now-empty stimpak in her backpack.

“I… oh no. I’m so sorry, Fawkes. I’m not normally this depressing,” she apologizes, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes and hastily rising to her feet. “I just… you know, I had this big plan to impress you as my new friend. You know, witty jokes. Clever references to dead authors and historical figures, all kinds of neat stuff. Not daddy issues.” Her laughter sounds false even to Fawkes’ unpracticed ears, and when she beams at him, it looks like a carefully constructed mask. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better company from now on, I promise.”

“You are excellent company,” he says slowly, helping her back into her armor. “I simply overstepped my bounds.”

“No such thing. I’ve got all the personal space of an amorous molerat,” Jinx snorts. “I talk too much, I step too close, I bother people. If you can put up with my chatter for more than a week, you’re a saint.”

He would like to think she is merely playing at self-deprecation, but her inward slump looks too genuine. While he has read much on his terminal—learning much of history, philosophy, literature—not a single data file has prepared him for comforting another, so when she starts moving, he eagerly follows her lead.

She sets a brisk pace—not as fast as Fawkes can go, but she moves with easy familiarity of her suit’s capabilities and how to glide over rough terrain. Her Pip-Boy is a useful tool, pointing her unerringly towards previously explored territory and warning of hostile entities. At one point, she pauses, looking at a distant satellite array, and murmurs, “I wonder…?”

“What is on your mind?”

“Unfriendlies up in that tower, but I bet I could get a better bearing on where we are from up there. Do you mind terribly if we attack some Enclave soldiers?” she asks, voice deceptively mild. “I can always patch up my suit, and the armor sells for a good price… if you don’t mind carrying it, at least,” she adds sheepishly. “Even with the motors, I’m almost at my weight limit. The downside of being a scrounger, I guess.”

“It would be an honor to rid the world of their evil,” he says firmly. He is rewarded with a cheery thumbs up gesture before they move into position. Picking a position from a nearby hill, Jinx manages to snipe the soldier standing guard at the top of the dish, a lucky shot that blows his head to a pile of goo. Fawkes is able to eliminate another guard at the base of the tower, and then the alarms are off, more soldiers boiling out and shouting.

It is still relatively easy shooting; there are no more than half a dozen guards, and he and Jinx shift positions to cover a good swathe of the battlefield between them. For all that she prefers a stealthy approach, she makes a decent show of shooting in a straight-up battle. Even in her heavy armor, she enjoys strafing runs, dashing from one piece of cover to another to minimize the damage she takes.When at last they enter the tower, mopping up the remnants, she—as warned—looks for anything remotely valuable, scavenging the best suit of power armor and acquiring a science textbook.

“It appears rare to find an intact book out in the Wastes,” he comments.

She laughs, the tones echoing discordantly through her helmet. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. I’m a pretty omnivorous reader, just because I have to be—but instructional books like these are a real blessing, believe me. Plus the Brotherhood pays a good fee for any intact Prewar books for their library.”

Then, of course, she has to explain the library to him, and the Brotherhood—an interesting conversation that takes them for several miles more into the Wasteland on their way to Big Town.

“So your father was part of the Brotherhood?” he asks, attempting to determine her relationship to this organization.

She goes quiet for a moment, and he fears having said the wrong thing. “No. My father was… his own man, I think. His goals were aligned with the Brotherhood’s—and so are mine, generally speaking—but they dream a little small. He dreamt a bit too big. And I’m just stuck in the middle with my own big dreams,” she sighs. “I do not agree with everything the Brotherhood does—but _do_ think they dream too small. They have the largest, best-armed force in the Capital Wasteland, they have an immense stronghold full of healthy men and women who aren’t _starving_ to death, they have…” Her voice chokes, whether with rage or sorrow impossible to determine. “They have _everything_ they could do to make the world a better place, even without the purifier. And don’t get me wrong—!” she hastens to add, holding up her hand in a halting gesture. “They do a fantastic job out there, keeping the feral ghouls and hostile super mutants out of the DC area, but they are limited by their stupid hierarchy and chain of command. I mean, they could _eliminate_ Evergreen Mills, they could completely _destroy_ Paradise Falls if they wanted to, but instead…”

And here her voice cracks, volume rising as she punches the air in frustration. Fawkes gets the uneasy feeling this is a lecture that’s been brewing for a while, bottled up under the weight of responsibility and her desire to be ‘good company.’

“Instead, a teenage girl with a dog and a stalwart ghoul manservant clean up more of the bad guys then _all_ their boys and girls in power armor! I was scrounging around in beat-up old Raider gear and a lousy hunting rifle, and I _still_ had Three Dog howling about me more than the entire Brotherhood combined! At first I thought it was kind of sweet, you know, but then I realized it’s because they don’t _do_ half as much as they should!”

A broken sigh bordering on a sob escapes from under her helmet, and she kicks the ground restlessly, sending a pebble skittering over the dirt.

“Fawkes, I… I’ve got a confession to make here. And you’re free to tell me to shut up, or move on because you’ve had enough and realized I’m too crazy to tag around with,” she says quickly, hopping over a large rock. The action looks so innocent—young, more appropriate to a child than a woman in power armor—he is momentarily taken aback, almost missing her next words. She speaks rapidly, the words pouring out in a mad, guilty rush. “I’m not always proud of the things I do. The way I hesitate over what _needs_ to be done. There’s a… a whole list of regrets I already have. Like not taking on Evergreen Mills, or Paradise Falls… or buying Gob’s freedom…”

These are names without meaning to him, but he nods resolutely. If she needs a confessor, then so be it—for all the acclaim she has won amongst the people in the Wasteland, she still has her own private demons. Or not so private; her self-comparison to an amorous molerat may be more apt than he first suspected. Though he rather doubts Charon would have provided much support for these guilt-wracked confessions, if she was prone to making them.

“…if I ever hesitate to do what’s right, I want you to call me on it. I’m going to clean up the Mill and Paradise Falls as well—and I know it might be suicidal. But you were already willing to take on the Enclave for a stupid little girl,” she adds, and even through the helmet, he can tell she is grinning, tears probably smeared down her cheeks.

“I am, and I would follow you on any noble quest. Even if we tilt at windmills, it is better to fail than to live in the comfortable security of mediocrity,” he murmurs. “I do not think I need fear calling you to task for wrong-doing, though.”

“I don’t do wrong. I just don’t do enough _right_ ,” she emphasizes. “There is a difference. There’s right, there’s wrong, and then… well, there’s what’s left. If you pardon the pun.” She kicks another unoffending stone out of her path.

“’All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing,’” he quotes, adjusting the bulky power armor over one shoulder. While he’s certain it weighs half as much as Jinx does, it’s not truly heavy for _him_ —just bulky.

“Oh, yes. Much more succinct than my bout of verbal diarrhea,” the young woman laughs disparagingly. “I think I even recognize that one—Burke, right? Edmund Burke? No relation to _Mister_ Burke,” she adds with a high-pitched giggle at some private reference.

“You do know your history,” Fawkes says approvingly, pleasantly surprised.

She shrugs, the shoulders of her power armor clanking slightly. “I told you—I know my dead authors and historical figures. I caught your Don Quixote too.”

This would be a perfect opportunity to discuss the works he’s read, or critique the political systems that have both thrived and failed throughout history, but he hesitates. He is still so new to conversing, and she is still in a grey fugue of guilt and regret. Any word out of place could be a potential landmine, and they are both so unfamiliar with one another…

Each word could build a bridge, or destroy the fragile thread of what they already have.

So he remains silent.

She does not speak for the rest of the journey.


	6. Modern Folktales

They press on, not even stopping to eat. When hungry, she chews on strips of dried dog meat, passing the leathery protein to Fawkes so they can both eat while walking. They share a bottle of water between them, the liquid warm and faintly metallic on the back of his tongue. While he is no stranger to deprivation, the lukewarm water feels all the more refreshing for the fact that it sluices through the dry dust coating the back of his throat, the inescapable grit of the Wasteland floating through the air and his nostrils. He fancies even this sensation, uncomfortable as it may be, is all the sweeter for being borne in freedom. For that, he would endure far worse than stale-tasting water.

Finally, Fawkes spots a walled off settlement in the distance, surrounded by a few abandoned homes and with a small bridge of over an impromptu dry moat. The ramshackle walls are of rusting steel and scavenged wood, bound together with rope, wire, and hope. Perhaps not the most promising of places, but it is still a welcome shelter with night falling. The sky is a bruised blue and purple as the last rays of the sun bleed out about the edges. His first sunset; he wishes they had time to pause so he can admire it more thoroughly, but Jinx has paused, placing her hand on his arm. When he turns to look at her, she removes her helmet. Biting her lip, she gives him a sidelong glance, eyebrows furrowed. “Fawkes… please don’t take this the wrong way, but make sure you’re _right_ beside me as we go in,” she says slowly, pale eyes pleading. “They’ve had some bad experiences with super mutants, and it’s dark, they might be startled…”

“I prefer not to be fired at myself,” he agrees, catching on quickly. “In that case, perhaps you should lead, and I shall follow.”

“No. I don’t want you walking behind me,” she snaps, then colors as she realizes just how that could be interpreted. He waits patiently as she gulps the air, cheeks puffing indignantly while she scrambles to rearrange the words. “Dammit, that’s not how I meant it. I mean you are my _equal_ and companion. I don’t want you to feel like you ever have to shuffle along at my heels. Unless I’m disarming mines or something like that.” The last is added as almost an afterthought, a stickling attention to detail.

He elects not to point out that she has been literally leading the way for the entirety of their journey. Still, he can appreciate the sentiment, warmth swelling through his chest. “Very well. I shall approach alongside you.”

“Good.” She flashes a grin at him, hands twitching into a double thumbs-up. Her palms shake slightly—lingering withdrawal from whatever chem addiction she has, or more anxiety over the outcome of this little social experiment? Laying one hand at the crook of his arm, she waves the way forward, giggling as she nearly drops her helmet during this attempt at gallantry. “Come now, Fawkes. Big Town awaits!”

“So it does,” he murmurs, walking with her. It is not a comfortable activity, even with her helpfully accelerating her steps and him deliberately slowing his. Their gaits are wrong, he is far too tall and she too short, their bodies too close, her armor-clad hip bumping into his thigh and then she starts laughing, helpless and howling at the moon, and he can’t help chuckling along even as he wonders just how narrow is the edge between laughter and tears…

“Hey! Jinx! That… that mutant’s your friend?” a hesitant voice calls, a young man—barely out of boyhood himself—staring at them over the barrel of a hesitantly-raised rifle. Even with the semi-opaque helmet masking his features, he is too wide-eyed and just plain _young_ to look like any sort of adult by Fawkes’ admittedly limited reckoning.

“He’s my friend, Dusty! And his name is Fawkes!” Jinx calls back, giving his arm one last squeeze before walking across the bridge. She is still beaming, arms spread wide while her laughter bubbles over her lips. “I promise, I don’t hold hands with hostiles!”

“Jinx?” gasps a warm voice, and then a dark-skinned woman—or girl, looking even younger than Jinx, another girl-woman forced to take responsibilities beyond her age—runs down the street, away from a small group huddled at a campfire. She is dressed entirely in red, her spectacles glinting over Jinx’s head as she embraces the little wanderer. Fawkes is momentarily taken aback, having forgotten how small Jinx is compared to other humans, let alone himself. “Jinx! Three Dog’s been quiet about you for a bit, so we were starting to wonder…”

“Nah, nah. Nothing to worry about,” Jinx chuckles, and for a moment, Fawkes thinks he can see her barriers rising again, bright laughter and self-deprecation patching over her insecurities. “Just vault-crawling again. Nothing new or exciting.”

“Who is your friend?” the woman asks, releasing Jinx and looking Fawkes over curiously. He recognizes her hesitation and the fear in her eyes as she unconsciously takes a step back… but she then takes two deliberate steps forward. Out of civility, or perhaps unwavering faith in Jinx.

“My name is Fawkes,” he says slowly, dipping his head in an abbreviated bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, but then she smiles again. It is forced about the edges, her body angled in unconscious preparation for flight, but at least it is an attempt at hospitality. “Wonderful! I feel the same way about any friends of friends. I’m Red, and those there are Shorty, Timebomb, and Flash,” she adds, pointing to the three young men near the fire by way of introduction. Fawkes notes that Shorty is—unsurprisingly—the shortest, a dark-haired man with a stiff haircut and an almost permanent scowl on his face. He still stands taller than Jinx, confirmed when she stands next to him to give a friendly fist-bump. Timebomb is lankier, with a vaguely sleepy expression as he gives a cautious wave. Flash is by far the friendliest, beaming bright as the fire shining off his blonde hair.

“Is Kimba cooking tonight?” Jinx asks. When Shorty confirms it, her cheeks split with a grin. “Great!  I have some food to chip in, if she doesn’t mind…”

Red leads her to one of the houses, presumably to drop off the food and help in the kitchen. Uncertain of whether to follow her or stay with the young men, Fawkes’ hesitation makes his decision by proxy. He remains in place, standing uncomfortably while the trio continues staring at him. Finally he decides to sit down, leaning against the wooden wall of one of the houses.

Getting closer to their level appears to break the ice.

For a given value of ‘icebreaker,’ anyway.

“How long have you been traveling with Jinx?” Flash asks, hooking his thumbs in his waistband as he eyes Fawkes with undisguised curiosity.

“Only for the past day,” the mutant confesses, placing his hands on his knees and pulling inward in an effort to appear smaller. “She freed me from the more brutal of my kind.”

“She does a lot of rescue work,” Shorty mutters. “Saved me from being the main ingredient in a super mutant chili cook-off,” he adds, glaring at Fawkes with outright hostility. “I swear, if I wake up and see you standing over me with a knife, I’m gonna—“

“Shorty, relax,” Timebomb chides, putting one hand on his arm to restrain him. “Jinx is a good person. If she trusts him, that’s good enough for me.”

Still glowering at Fawkes, Shorty mutters, “I’m still not sleeping in the same room as it.”

Wistfully, Fawkes reflects this type of reception would be so much worse if the small woman weren’t present to vouch for him. It had been sheer luck that the wandering traders were willing to speak with him, much less offer him aid. Joining forces with Jinx—at first an impulsive act of loneliness hoping for pity—was his only viable option for passing through human settlements.

Timebomb just snorts, giving Fawkes a helpless shrug. “That’s your problem then. What happened to the ghoul anyway?” he asks, curious.

“He is watching Dogmeat,” Fawkes says diplomatically. The answer does not get more scrutiny than that, allowing him to sidestep the messy tangle of Jinx’s personal business.

There is more awkward silence, and eventually the three young men start a conversation that does not include Fawkes. He simply sits quietly, watching them until he realizes it makes Shorty uneasy, then averts his gaze to the side, watching the fire with fascination. Warming his massive hands against the orange glow, he comforts himself with the fact that at least simple pleasures—warmth, light—do not require companionship. Companionship is entirely different from company.

Eventually, Jinx emerges from the house, her Pip-Boy lit up and blaring a cheery Prewar tune as she jiggles a heavy metal pot. Pale steam and the savory smell of cooked meat rises from it, making Fawkes’ stomach rumble. She has changed out of her power armor, now clad in a dingy Wasteland settler’s outfit that sags on her scant form. She looks much smaller and more vulnerable without the shell of her armor, like a new-hatched chick too young to yet fly. Red follows, carrying another pot, while a slender woman with large eyes and dark hair carries a stack of chipped plates and utensils. Last is a man with tired eyes, the oldest present despite looking barely into his mid-twenties. He yawns, arms stretching overhead, but then gulps air as he sees Fawkes.

Immediately, Jinx murmurs, “Be cool, Pappy.” She emphasizes this with a gentle hip-check, catching him mid-thigh and causing him to stumble.

“Ah… damn,” the man coughs, sputtering up the air he just swallowed. “Sorry. Last time I saw a mutant, he was trying to smash my head in,” he adds weakly.

“I understand,” Fawkes demurs, wondering how many times he will have to repeat that phrase.

“Molerat stew tonight, plus apples for dessert,” the new woman murmurs quietly. “I hope you enjoy it.” She does not quite manage making eye contact, instead drifting her gaze somewhat past Fawkes’ ear.

Jinx chuckles, setting the pot down and ladling out a generous portion for herself. “Kimba’s selling herself short. She’s a great cook.” Plopping down cross-legged by the fire, she gives a happy laugh, the sound floating through the night like childhood melody. “We have good company, we have dinner music, and I’ve got some things to trade.”

Digging into the stew, Fawkes quickly realizes that ‘trade’ is a euphemism for ‘give,’ as Jinx donates handguns, a hunting rifle, ammo, and a bottle of Rad-X to the small community. She claims it is fair trade for a night’s lodging and dinner (though Red quickly exclaims they _must_ eat breakfast too), but even Fawkes’ inexperienced eye recognizes that the value of her items far outweighs the value of food and shelter. Especially since he has no doubt she could simply pry her way into one of the abandoned houses just outside of Big Town’s enclosure.

“I’ve also got some new books…” she adds. “Couldn’t find any more medical journals, sorry, but I got a copy of Dean’s Electronics.”

Kimba swallows daintily, holding up a hand to cover her mouth as she responds. “Bittercup found a book while scavving, and wanted us to give it to you.” She bites her lower lip, hesitant and hopeful in equal parts. “She thought you might like it.”

Jinx cheerily accepts the trade, carefully opening the tattered hardcover with a dramatic inhalation. “Mm, just love that old-book smell. So much more…” Here she waggles her eyebrows devilishly, giving a wink so broad and ludicrous that any lurid intent is wholly stripped away. “… _sensual_ than a dry data file.”

“You’re weird,” Shorty mutters, but he’s smiling at least, fierce frown momentarily at bay.

“Yeah, but you already knew that,” she chuckles. “Ooh, Homer’s Odyssey! This was one of my favorites in the vault!”

She grew up in a vault as well? Fawkes files that tidbit away for future reference, realizing it’s another point of common ground.

Red laughs, the sound bubbling over the background lyrics of a song about someone called Butcher Pete. “I thought you’d like it. It’s about a wanderer, just like you.”

“Thank you. I’m… this means a lot to me,” Jinx murmurs, tracing one finger over the dark ink. She looks up, smiling—and her eyes are wide, crinkled with mirth, but with that wet gleam that he is starting to learn signifies grief held barely in check—and laughs. “I love stories. Almost as much as music. There’s power in them, you know?”

“Why ‘almost’ as much?” Flash asks, picking up a last chunk of molerat with his fingers and popping it into his mouth.

“Music is joy for the sake of joy,” she explains, tapping her feet and miming a shuffling dance by way of demonstration. “I mean, even with a sad song, music is just… it just lifts you up and cleans you out. It goes straight to the gut. A story tries to stick with you, all barbs and hooks. The stories that stick usually have lessons attached. Sometimes unpleasant ones.” She grimaces at that, tongue poking out in mock disgust.

Fawkes nods, immediately grasping her implication. “A good story has themes that resonate.”

Pappy blinks at him in surprise, but Jinx snaps her fingers with a delighted laugh. “Exactly!”

“Well, hey. I like stories,” Red says, smiling. “Maybe you tell us one you heard growing up.”

“Uh… sure,” Jinx replies, flipping off the radio on her Pip-Boy. She sucks her cheeks in, rocking back and forth from her cross-legged sitting position. “Okay. So this is… I’m going to tell you straight up, this is a good story, but I _hated_ it because it was the Overseer’s favorite. It’s about Icarus.” Clearing her throat self-consciously, she launches into the tale.

“So… once upon a time, in an ancient land called Greece—the same place that the Odyssey came from— there lived an inventor named Daedalus and his son, Icarus. Daedalus was greatly prized by the king, since he created so many wonderful items that it made his kingdom proud. Unfortunately, Daedalus angered the king, so he and his son were trapped inside a giant labyrinth…” she begins, the words flowing more smoothly once she gets past the first awkward lines. Unfortunately, this is the point that Flash interrupts.

“What’s a labyrinth?” he asks.

“It’s like a giant maze,” Red quickly explains. Fawkes reflects that ‘maze’ is not a terribly accurate description either, since a labyrinth only has one path to follow, but pedantic nit-picking will get them nowhere.

Jinx just nods agreement, letting Flash sit back with a pleased smile of understanding.

“So… they were in the labyrinth. But because of Daedalus’ great service to the king before, the king let him keep his workshop and tools inside the labyrinth. So Daedalus and his son started planning their escape. Taking inspiration from the birds he saw flying overhead, Daedalus crafted giant wings of wax and feathers for him and Icarus. They were soon able to escape the labyrinth.”

She swallows, her lips briefly thinning. Unpleasant memories lurk beneath the surface, but she quickly glosses them over with narrative flow. “But because the wings were of wax, they couldn’t fly too high. Daedalus warned Icarus that if he went too close to the sun, his wings would melt, and he would die. Icarus promised to obey, but while flying…” Jinx mimes flapping her hands, fluttering them about in demonstration of flight. Then she chuckles, the serious story-telling persona abruptly dropped as she grins, embracing the happy fantasy of absolute freedom. “Icarus realized this was _amazing_. He was free as a bird, able to go wherever he wanted. The breeze in his hair, the sun on his face—such a change from the gloomy labyrinth. So in his excitement, he flew higher and higher.”

From labyrinths to Vaults to nightmares hidden beneath soft-spoken words, Fawkes tracks the thread of the story. He has read the original tale—or at least a translation of it—and knows what is coming next. Red and Kimba seem to recognize the shaping of a tragedy, both of them huddled inward. Only Flash looks completely unaware of Icarus’ impending doom, leaning forward with a bright smile and expecting Icarus to escape his fate.

“…so he flew too close to the sun, and his wings started melting. He plummeted downward, and was swallowed by the sea. Daedalus did not even have a body to mourn, and spent the rest of his days grieving his lost son,” she finishes flatly, clapping her hand once to signal the conclusion of her tale.

Timebomb shivers.

“Hey, what was the point of that?” Shorty demands, setting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, he just dies? What kind of story is that?”

“One without a happy ending,” Jinx sighs, scraping a dented spoon across the bottom of her empty plate. “One that teaches little vault children not to dream too big, or reach for the sky. Not to question our beloved Overseer, and stay trapped in the labyrinth.” Abruptly, she scowls, pointing her spoon at Shorty’s furious face. “At least, that’s what the Overseer always _wanted_ us to think. At least Icarus died free, dammit. He got to feel the sun and wind before he died.”

“But he still died,” Timebomb whispers. “You’re not…”

She blinks, cheeks flushing as she realizes how revealing that spirited defense of the legend was, but Jinx is too cagy to allow herself to remain embarrassed long. Setting her plate down, she holds her hands up in surrender as she chuckles. “Relax, Timebomb. It’s just… it’s just a story.”

Looking at her, a child among children telling campfire stories, Fawkes’ feels his heart ache.It isa story with nightmares, and only thinly-woven laughter to keep the darkness at bay.

“Sometimes we hold on to the hard stories because they tell us things,” Kimba murmurs. “We have one in Little Lamplight, Hansel and Gretel…”

“Oh yeah? Tell me that one!” Jinx exclaims eagerly, quick to divert attention from her personal history.

Kimba blushes, eyes turning down as she protests, “Maybe Red should tell it. Her name is…”

“No, you tell it best,” Red hastens to assure her. Timebomb and Flash start urging Kimba on, until finally the girl just sighs, squaring her shoulders.

“Okay. So… Long ago, in the before-times—before the war, that is—“ she adds quickly, cheeks turning even redder at that childish lapse. “There was a man and woman, and they had two children. The boy was named Hansel, and the girl was named Gretel. This was before the bombs fell and the world went completely to hell, but life was still tough. They were running out of food, and so the man and woman decided they didn’t want to take care of their children anymore.”

Fawkes nods, listening intently. This is another tale he recognizes, though he suspects that it has been altered by the oral tradition of the Wasteland.

“So the man and woman left their children at the edge of an evil forest. It was dark and filled with monsters and ghosts, but they lied to Hansel and Gretel and told them they’d be safe as long as they stuck to the path, and they would find food and a safe place. So Hansel and Gretel—trusting their parents—walked into the forest. They held each other’s hands and stayed on the path, even when the wolves howled all around them. They heard the howls coming closer…” Kimba continues, lowering her voice spookily. The rest of the boys and girls of Big Town lean in with anticipation, even though they must have heard this story already. Jinx herself is hugging her knees with childish excitement.

Gratified by her audience’s interest, Kimba smiles shyly and starts getting more immersed in her own story, the cadence of her voice shifting to an oratorical tone. “But they stayed on the path. They thought they’d be safe, even when they saw the wolves come closer. Even when the dim moonlight shone off their fangs, they thought they’d be safe.” She swallows, hands tightening on her thighs. “But then Gretel tripped over something on the path. Looking down, they saw skeletons— two small figures. Another little boy and girl sent to die by their parents. But the two skeletons were clutching weapons. A knife and a bat, so Gretel grabbed the knife and Hansel grabbed the bat. When the wolves came closer, and the first one lunged at them, they were ready.”

Kimba does not make expressive gestures like Jinx did, but her eyes light up with fierce joy as she describes what happens next. “Hansel swung with his bat, beating the wolf across the skull and smashing its brains to pulp. Gretel got the next one, her knife biting its flesh. And so they kept fighting, until all the wolves were dead. Bloodied but not broken, they decided to name their weapons. Gretel named her knife Biter, and Hansel named his bat Beater. And now that they knew the path wasn’t safe, they decided to wander off. After all, it’s not like they could go home again.”

Another story with more hidden undercurrents, nightmares lurking beneath the words. Fawkes hears Kimba’s voice catch on the last sentence, and watches her blink tears away. Still, she resolutely continues the tale.

“So they ventured deeper into the forest, off the path and away from the lies. They were lost and hungry, but at least were together. Eventually, they started smelling wonderful things. Sweets and candy and cake, all warm and wonderful on the breeze. Following their noses, they found a giant house built of gingerbread, with spun-sugar windows and sweet rolls lining the way to the door. They started eating away, filling their empty bellies for the first time in ages. But then they heard a voice calling to them.”

Kimba pinches her face in, pitching her voice to a warbly, cracked old-lady tone, the words pouring out like broken chimes. “’Children! Why don’t you come in? There are even better things inside to eat.’ Hansel didn’t want to go in, because they had already been betrayed once by grown-ups, but Gretel wanted to have a family again, so she convinced him to go. Once inside, the sweet old lady turned out to be an evil witch, who locked Hansel in a cage and chained Gretel to the stove. She planned on cooking and eating them, but Gretel figured out how to trick her. When the witch asked if the oven was hot enough yet, Gretel said she couldn’t tell. So the witch bent over to check, and Gretel shoved her in, locking the oven shut. Now with the witch dead, she freed Hansel, and they had the house all to themselves.”

This would be the point that Fawkes expects a ‘and then they lived happily ever after,’ but Kimba just smiles sadly. “This one doesn’t have a real happy ending either, because eventually, the bombs fell on them too.”

“Brahmin shit!” Shorty exclaims, punching the ground in frustration. “You _know_ that’s not how it ends!”

“Well… yeah. But let’s face it, there is no ‘happily ever after’ forever,” Kimba says defensively. “I mean, the bombs fell, and then all the other children—the ones whose parents either died or left them alone in the radiation—started wandering through the forest too. More of them smelled the gingerbread and sweets, so they started going through the forest and found the house. Hansel and Gretel took them in and started helping them, so the children made their own family that way. Even better and stronger than the ones that had left them behind.”

She sighs, staring into the fire. There is a long pause before Jinx gently pushes, “That’s not the end, is it?”

“No,” the storyteller whispers regretfully.

Shorty just groans, rolling his eyes. “That’s where _I_ end it.”

“And that’s why Kimba’s telling the story, not you,” Pappy snaps. “It’s more real that way.”

“It’s still a story! At least it’s better than hearing them all grow up!” Shorty retorts, crossing his arms peevishly.

Red frowns, pointing first at Shorty, then Pappy. “Both of you, hush now. Kimba’s telling it, so she’ll finish it the way she wants.”

Heartened by Red’s support, Kimba hurries to tell the rest. “But Hansel and Gretel couldn’t stop themselves from growing older, and were terrified of becoming just like their parents and the witch and all the other people who forgot what it meant to be a child. At first they thought maybe they could fight it by being good to everyone, always promising to share and feed any of the new children that came in. But Hansel started getting greedy and selfish, and started having… hungers.”

The way Kimba runs her tongue over her teeth leaves little imagination as to what Hansel hungered for.

“When Gretel caught him about to shove one of the little ones into the oven—just like she had to shove the witch so long ago—she realized the monster he had become, and went after him with Biter. When at last he fell and his blood stained her hands, she decided she could not stay there any longer. She gave the children instructions on how to behave, rules for welcoming new family members, and said goodbye before leaving for one last journey into the woods. She wore a white dress and cloak, deciding to kill wolves until she died, trying to make the route to the house as safe as possible.”

Reaching out to finger the edge of Red’s sleeve, her lips turn up in a shy smile. “With Biter, she hacked and slashed at the wolves until her white dress and cloak were all red with blood. Her red clothes were so dark that when she started bleeding herself, injured by the wolves, it wasn’t even visible. Her red cloak hid all her injuries, making it look to the wolves like they couldn’t hurt her. So Gretel became the Lady in Red, another spirit wandering the woods. But because she died fighting monsters, deliberately fighting them to help other people instead of just defending herself, she was able to stay pure to her purpose even after her death. She kept the woods safe for… for the first time since the bombs fell, and so the children were able to live happily ever after in their little cottage.”

“Until they get older and get run out, at least,” Shorty adds bitterly. He scowls, locking his dark gaze with Jinx. “That’s why when I tell the story, I always end it earlier. Otherwise it just becomes another pointless, stupid story about people dying.”

“You are a romantic at heart,” the red-haired woman says lightly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. Shorty flushes, his ears turning pink.

“Gretel becoming the Lady in Red was one of the reasons red became my favorite color,” Red admits. “I’m not _the_ Lady in Red, but at least I’m still _a_ lady in red. I think of it as a good-luck color.”

Jinx chuckles, brushing her fingers over her scarlet mop. “Good thing I dyed this, then. I can use all the luck I can get.”

“Still got my 8-ball?” Timebomb asks shyly. At Jinx’s quick nod, he smiles. When she starts reaching into her pack for proof, he chuckles, waving his hand dismissively. “I believe you. I hope it’s working.”

There are more stories there, more history between her and the people of this town—and Fawkes resolves to ask her about it, once they are on the road again. He also reflects on the story Kimba told; he easily recognizes the roots of the original Hansel and Gretel story, of course, and imagines the Lady in Red was incorporated as a garbled version of Little Red Riding Hood. The named weapons sound as if they came from a fantasy novel he vaguely recalls, but the rest—especially the running theme of deceitful adults and corruption coming with age—appear to resonate from a personal cultural mythos rather than distortion of Prewar tales.

“That was a powerful story, Kimba. Thanks for sharing it. I’ve never heard it before,” Jinx speaks, raising a Nuka Cola bottle in toast. By unspoken consensus, they turn to lighter topics for the rest of the evening. Timebomb tells a silly story about a molerat that tricks a Deathclaw into throwing it down a maintenance tunnel, and Jinx sings a little ditty about dish and spoon running off to get married.

From there, it is a natural progression to turning the radio back on. Kimba claps along while Jinx snaps her fingers, managing to make a clean snapping sound with her right hand but miserably failing several times with her left. Teasing her, Timebomb gets right up in her face to snap both of _his_ hands in front of her nose, but she retaliates by grabbing his wrists and spinning him into a whirling dance that she claims she had to learn during gym class. When Timebomb inevitably trips over his own feet, Flash laughs until he starts choking, so Shorty has to pound his back.

Fawkes simply observes, chuckling to himself at their enthusiasm. ‘Joy for the sake of joy’ is rare enough that he treasures watching them, their daily worries melting away under the power of music, dance—and Jinx. She is a beacon of joy in her own right, twirling with a happiness so fierce he imagines it’s deliberate, a way to fight back against the daily uncertainties and troubles of her own life.

His reverie is interrupted as the song ends and a raucous voice takes over the radio broadcast.

“Thanks for listening, chiiill-dren! This is Three Dog, _OWWWWWW_! And you're listening to Galaxy News Radio! We're Radio Free Wasteland! And we're here... for you!” the man exclaims. “Time for a very important public service announcement! For all you guys and gals tempted by the thought of scavving in the downtown D.C. ruins, here's a tip... You see, children, the Frankensteins might violently and horrifically rip you to shreds. But only if you're lucky...”

With an icy chill, Fawkes realizes this is a real threat to this little community. They are back to huddled silence, watching him and failing to meet his eyes. Jinx immediately squeezes next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

The broadcaster continues, “According to most of our reports on the super mutants, they actually prefer capturing their victims and hauling them off to God knows where. Consider yourself officially warned. And now, back to music.”

 _Vault 87,_ he dimly realizes. _This is a report on the super mutants who have been capturing the Wasteland denizens. And the people of this town have already experienced that_ …

He feels achingly alone, guilty by association without knowing how to remedy it.

It takes a few moments before he realizes Jinx is pulling on his hands, the radio crooning, “ _I’m as corny as Kansas in August, I’m as normal as blueberry pie. No more a smart little girl with no heart, I have found me a wonderful guy…”_

“Come on, Fawkes. Dance with me,” she whispers in his ear, a tuft of her hair tickling his scalp. So he gets up, moving slowly as she leads him through a slow dance. Her deliberate effort at inclusion brings a lump to his throat, forcing him to remain silent as she casually murmurs, “This is one of my favorite songs, even if it’s kind of sappy. One of my other favorites is ‘Papa Loves Mambo,’ but I haven’t been able to find a record for that yet. When I do, I plan on giving it to Three Dog. His songs are kind of limited at the moment.”

He quickly realizes this is a love song, but Jinx is no more intimate with him than she was with Timebomb—amorous molerat declarations aside—and he decides not to read into it.

When the song comes to an end, she gives him one last squeeze before helping Pappy and Shorty clean away the plates. The gentle strains of ‘Let’s Go Sunning’ carry through Big Town as they get ready for the night. Jinx gets a mattress in the common house, though Flash and Red have to pull together a few spares to make an impromptu bed for Fawkes. True to his word, Shorty sleeps in another building entirely, but at least does not again voice his refusal to sleep in the same room as Fawkes..

The dilapidated mattresses are only marginally more comfortable than sleeping on the bare floor of his cell, but the sound of Jinx breathing only a few feet over becomes a soothing lullaby. When he falls asleep, he does not dread the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A link to the inspiration for the garbled Wasteland folktales.](http://www.miaminewtimes.com/1997-06-05/news/myths-over-miami/)


	7. Breakfast Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief moment of quiet for the characters. Previous chapters have also been edited; mostly for clarity of language.

Fawkes is the first to wake, the dim sunlight lancing through the slats in the windows far more startling than the unchanging light cycles of Vault 87. Looking about, he realizes the children are still sleeping—but Jinx’s eyes flick open as he sits up. Soon she is sitting up as well, changing back into her black under-armor (and again, Fawkes averts his eyes, unnerved by Jinx’s casual disregard for any sort of body taboo) but leaving her power armor neatly arrayed on the floor. As she tiptoes out of the house, he follows her.

The door creaks shut behind them, and Jinx releases a loud exhale. “I figured we’d hang around for breakfast, then keep going to Megaton.”

Fawkes nods, not trusting his voice to not wake those still slumbering.

“So… how did your first day go?” she asks. She twists side to side, reaching her arms overhead in a set of stretching exercises. Free of the straight-backed lines of her armor, her form is lithe and supple, bending and swaying as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Trying to keep his volume low, he replies, “It was quite fascinating. Thank you for agreeing to take me in your travels.”

“A good friend is hard to find.” Despite the banality of that statement, her eyes crinkle with delight. “Besides, my first day out of the vault was… pretty scary. Even with friendly people, it’s just a lot out there. The big ol’ lightbulb in the sky.” She mimes flipping a switch at the sun, prompting a startled laugh that turns into a cough as Fawkes tries to suppress it. “The constant dust. The grit. Oh, and the _smell_. Believe me, I would— well, not kill, maybe. But perhaps _maim_ for some of the scented soap we used to have in 101…”

He decides this is the best opening he is going to get, so he asks, “I understand you were raised in a Vault?”

“Oh, yes. Vault 101 was an okay place to live, but… well, it had its flaws.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, giving him a thoughtful sidelong glance. “I don’t know how to really talk about it without sounding either like a nostalgic kid or some sort of bitter reject—especially since I’m both—but then again, you know that living in a vault isn’t all cupcakes and Nukas.”

“I may have inhabited a cell, but that is scarcely the same as growing up in a Vault community,” he says gently, trying to keep it from too reproachful.

She still gets the not-too-subtle hint and sighs, pushing her hands up in surrender. “All right, not the best joke. They can’t all be gems. Or even just shiny rocks.” Fawkes can barely follow her convoluted sense of humor, but she isn’t waiting for a laugh. “Okay. So… I grew up with it. I don’t know what else to say. I took so much of it for granted—safe place, food, daily schedule—that it felt normal. It’s not until I got out and got a fresh look at the world that I started seeing the cracks. Or maybe just because I got a bit older, so I think more critically about some things.”

Jinx continues speaking as she moves into the next stretch in her routine. Bracing one palm against a wall, she pulls her leg behind her with the other hand. “All of the Vaults are… experiments, on some level or another. I mean, you cannot have so many people living together—cramped quarters, limited supplies, even with hydroponics, equipment that can only go so long, shortages both real and artificial—without getting some _interesting_ social dynamics going on.” The slight hiss on ‘interesting’ combined with a fleeting grimace illustrates exactly what she thought of that. “Our Overseer held absolute power, and even though it was never technically meant to become a dynasty… historically, power seems to have gone along familial lines. And no matter how well-intentioned individuals within the system might be, the structure itself is flawed.”

Peeking up at him, her lips twist into a wry grin. “Of course, pointing out we were hardly preserving the American ideal of democracy wasn’t really a way to make friends. Not that our Overseer was _bad_ , exactly…” Her voice trails off, eyes distant as she switches legs, adjusting her position against the wall. “He was… I don’t even know anymore. Growing up, I thought he was distant, cold but fair. He had to be, to be in charge, right? But when my father left, and his best friend died, and all the guards went berserk and the roaches were crawling in…”

Her posture shifts, feet braced against the earth as she mimes hefting something over her shoulder. A weapon, judging from the set of her features. She swings once, twice, each time with a brisk huff of air from her lips. “Amata—his daughter, my best friend—gave me a pistol. She thought I might need to shoot my way out to escape. I gave it back to her, just relying on my old slugger to knock out anyone in my way. World gone crazy or not, I still grew up with them all. I didn’t want to _kill_ anyone.”

There is a tremor on her lower lip, restless energy coursing through her limbs as she attempts to shake it off. “I don’t know how successful I was. I just… hit, ran, tried to reach the door. Smashed roaches on the way out. Even saved a couple of people—Butch’s mama, Officer Kendall—but… I’ll always be guilty of failing to do more. But that’s what happens when you lock the monsters in for centuries, right? Just festering in the labyrinth…”

 _And Daedalus could only support himself with those wings, and was unable to save his son…_ the story whispers through Fawkes, restraining an involuntary shiver. “You did what you could, I am sure.”

“And it’s never enough,” she mutters distractedly, staring at the horizon longingly. “I am… very glad you chose to join me. Thank you. Again. I keep thinking I can’t thank you enough.”

He shakes his head, demurring, “I have done little enough to be worthy of your thanks.”

She chuckles, combing her fingers through her hair in a distracted gesture. “We’ll agree to disagree on that then.” Patting her hand against his arm, they both turn as they hear the door opening behind them. Kimba blinks at them in the sunlight, mortification coloring her cheeks dark rose.

“I am so sorry! I was supposed to wake up and make breakfast first, but—“

“No worries,” Jinx cuts in smoothly. “I was hoping to help out anyway.”

Taking his cue from the prompt offer, Fawkes nods as well. “I would offer my aid as well, if you would have me. I have little experience cooking, but I can at least follow your orders.” The young woman is still staring up at him, mouth slightly open as her blush darkens. Instinctively, he draws himself down, slumping his shoulders and trying to make himself seem smaller. Idly, he realizes he is doing the exact opposite of Jinx—she tends to walk straight and proud, chin held up as if to emphasize the scant height she possesses. Where she tries to make herself larger, letting her presence match her personality, he is attempting to diminish himself to seem less threatening.

It seems to work. Or at least Kimba recognizes the feeble attempt, smiling weakly as she protests, “But you two are our _guests_ …”

“And you are our host. Please, let us help out. We are already eating so much of your food anyway,” Jinx laughs, rubbing a small and astonishingly warm hand over Fawkes’ bare abdomen. He grunts at the unexpected touch, schooling his face to stillness as her palm tickles against his belly. “Fawkes here still needs to grow up big and strong like me!”

Kimba fails to find the humor in that declaration, her forced chuckle seeming more politeness than anything else. “Okay then. We have brahmin milk and grain for oatmeal, plus dried mutfruit. If you can stir the pot…”

“Pot-stirrer extraordinaire, that’s me!” the redhead declares, flashing a thumbs-up with both hands.

“I’ve also got some smoked molerat and potatoes, so I could make a sort of hash if you don’t mind chopping them…” Kimba continues, still looking incredulously up at Fawkes. He just smiles benignly, keeping his lips closed. Shorty’s story about a ‘super mutant chili cook-off’ just echoes a bit too ominously for him to want to bare teeth.

“I would be honored to assist in making this fine meal,” he rumbles, dipping his head in a respectful nod.

That finally provokes a smile, Kimba covering the flash of white teeth almost shyly with one hand. “I only wish the others would be so honored to help clean up afterward.”

Jinx immediately begins, “Well, we could…” before Kimba shakes her head briskly, tapping Jinx’s shoulder and firmly steering her towards the kitchen. Fawkes follows quietly, bemused by how quickly Kimba heads off his companion’s altruistic impulse.

“ _You_ have more important things to do than clean our dishes,” the Big Town woman says sternly. “Thank you for the help, but believe it or not, we can occasionally do some things without you watching over us all the time.” Her features are soft, the last sentence so quietly grateful that it removes all the sting of the words. “Every day we spend above ground—every day that Red walks around that clinic, that Timebomb’s breathing and hunting, even the times that Shorty’s picking fights—is already a gift.”

For the first time since Fawkes has met her—an admittedly brief span of hours—he sees Jinx speechless, her mouth opening and closing without words escaping. The girl-woman swallows hard, eyes shining, and abruptly turns to fill a small pot with water. “I… You’re welcome, Kimba. I really care about you guys.”

“And you had no reason to when you first met us,” the chef replies, pulling out a cutting board and knife for Fawkes. She takes a sack of potatoes, scrubbing them as best she can with limited water and a towel already faintly grimy. As she finishes each spud, she passes it to the super mutant. The task is unfamiliar, but a knife is a knife—and as he starts slicing in, some long-forgotten muscle memory takes over, cutting the potatoes into neat cubes.

“I know I’m the quiet one,” Kimba murmurs, “But I watch. I listen. Whenever you come by to visit or we hear Three Dog let us know you’re doing all right—it means a lot. So keep doing whatever big, important things you have to do. We’re learning to fend for ourselves, because _you_ helped us do it.”

That solemn declaration sits in long silence, all the inhabitants of the small kitchen musing over it in their own ways.

Jinx coughs awkwardly. “You know, I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time.”

“Usually because you’re too busy talking,” the other woman says, smiling gently as she finishes the last of the scrubbing. She starts cutting the molerat meat, the simple rhythm of her knife slicing against the wooden cutting board almost hypnotic.

Pouring the oats into the now-boiling water, Jinx gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I’d say something, but I’m afraid it would only prove you right.”

“You already did,” Kimba says serenely, dimples forming in her cheeks. That prompts another burst of laughter from Jinx, and even Fawkes can’t keep himself from smiling, scraping the potatoes into a large pile at the center of a plate. This moment is… domestic. He can’t find any other words for it, and this quiet shared camaraderie, even just listening to the women talk, feels like a precious thing.

Eventually Kimba shoos them away from their stations, saying they have done enough, but Jinx stays in the kitchen, making idle chatter and grabbing utensils as Kimba needs them. He observes that she is not quite familiar enough to find all the items right away, but at least has a general idea of where they are, with occasional reminders from Kimba to look on the other side, or that such-and-such has been moved. The scent of warm oats and sizzling hash permeates the air, and thinks back to the relentless diet of cram and half-charred, half-raw hunks of meat that had been his mainstay during captivity.

The Capital Wasteland has many wonders to offer.

Once they finally eat breakfast, it is a relatively restrained affair. There is no dancing or story-telling, but Shorty endures some good-natured ribbing over some sort of noise he made in his sleep. Shorty simply glares at Timebomb, stuffing his mouth full of meat and refusing to dignify it with a response. Jinx washes her food down with a few sips of clean water before armoring up. Once again, Fawkes helps her, noting how it always seems to be one particular buckle that gives her problems. She gives a smile of gratitude before fitting the helmet over her head, walking out with one last goodbye to the boys and girls of Big Town.


	8. Lotsa Caps

Breakfast still sits warm in his belly as they move across the Wastes, Jinx moving with renewed energy and vitality. He suspects the simple human contact, surrounded by people who care for her, has done more for her than even the good meal and night’s rest. She no longer seems so dangerously off-kilter, her words smoother and without the manic bite of her pained declarations immediately after his failed rescue attempt.

She hums as they walk, the sound making strange reverberations through her helmet. Despite their trek of the previous day, she remains energetic as ever, hopping over small stones in the path. They follow the remnants of some ancient roadway, cracked gray slabs crumbling to broken islands jutting at uneven angles from the earth below.

“Tell me of Megaton,” he requests, not entirely certain what to expect of this new destination.

Jinx stops skipping, instead bouncing in a loose-limbed stride that fails to still the jangling of her armor. “It’s one of the bigger cities out in the Capital Wasteland. Nice place. A lot of traders pass through, plus it’s got a decent restaurant, a pretty nice general store—Moira might get a kick out of meeting you—a doctor, an honest-to-goodness sheriff to keep order…” Her voice trails off, tone flavored with distaste as she adds, “And a saloon owned by a certain piece of work called Colin Moriarty.”

Knowing she will keep talking if given the opportunity, Fawkes remains silent.

“He… this is one of the things I told you about. I need to _do_ good, not just _not_ do bad,” she mutters, the words tumbling out awkwardly, like sharp-edged stones pouring from a jar. “There’s a man named Gob that he keeps working for him. Practically a slave; slavery’s not allowed in Megaton, but he claims he bought his contract off some slavers in order to use him as an indentured servant. You know, release him _after_ he somehow scrapes up enough money to pay him back, all while he deducts his food and board… Beats him too, and I can only do so much when I’m not there. So… I need to fix it.” She sounds painfully earnest, like a child trying to ‘fix’ an injured stray. “I need to buy his contract.”

Fawkes nods, asking, “How much do you expect you will need?”

“…a lot.” Her sigh whistles softly through the mouthpiece. “I bought Charon’s contract for...” Her voice nearly breaks, and she gives a rasping cough before continuing. “Two thousand caps, and that cleaned me out. But I have things to sell and favors to call in. I’m not leaving Gob there another day.” There is steel in her voice, determination strengthening the soft tone.

Uneasily, Fawkes thinks of the rattling bags Charon had so freely given him. He knows little of this strange Wasteland currency, but reflects on how his magnificent Gatling laser had been practically a gift from those traveling merchants. Even so… if four hundred caps and good will had been sufficient to purchase such a weapon, what does that say for Charon’s price?

Heedless of his thoughts, she blithely continues, “I should help Nova too, but she’s not hurting the way Gob is. Maybe later—she is another ‘employee’ at the saloon. She’s paying off a debt as well, but she doesn’t have to deal with nearly as much abuse. Not that forced prostitution is necessarily  better, even if it doesn’t leave the same kind of marks—“ she adds, causing Fawkes to choke at her very casualness, “—but I have to do what I can.”

“If they are both indentured servants,” Fawkes says, voice slow as he tries to think of how to best contribute, “Moriarty—if he is a true businessman—should keep some sort of contract on hand, including their length of service and the fee required for early termination.”

“Good point.” She turns to face him, and he imagines her grinning sharp-toothed and feral beneath the helmet. “I think I’ll bring that up to Simms.”

The thought gives her renewed vigor, pumping her fist in the air and giving an odd half-hop that lets her click her heels together. The whole thing looks so ludicrous in the oversized power armor that Fawkes cannot hold back a short chuckle.

The journey to Megaton takes significantly less time than their sojourn from Raven Rock to Big Town, and when Fawkes spies the walls in the distance, Jinx confirms that it’s their destination. “It appears much larger and better-organized than Big Town,” he comments, glimpsing sentries patrolling the battlements.

Jinx nods, removing her helmet and fanning herself with one hand. “It is. C’mon now, I bet they’ve spotted us already.”

Whether or not they already have, she waves cheerily at the figures in the distance. Walking closer to the settlement, Fawkes feels a tremble of awe at how well humanity has managed to rebuild itself after the war. While this may not compare favorably to the descriptions he has read of prewar metropolises, this is still a far cry from the shambled, scavenged defenses of Big Town. A metal robot and two human guards greet them, the guards keeping a wary eye on Fawkes and holding their rifles at the ready. Even when Jinx falls into animated discussion with one of them, the other never fully lowers his weapon. Fawkes feels the itch of phantom bullets striking home, thinking that if he were to provide the slightest provocation—opening his mouth too widely perhaps, or moving too swiftly—he would feel his flesh ripped asunder. But finally, after Jinx wheedles, laughs, even dances in place in some sort of ludicrous display that finally causes the guard to give an uneasy laugh, they are granted permission to pass through.

“It’s amazing that people trust you enough not to attack me,” Fawkes mutters, skin crawling as he feels (no, that would imply doubt; he _knows_ ) their weapons are aimed at his back.

Jinx stops abruptly, wheeling to face him. Her face is set in a scowl, like an uncharacteristic stage-mask over her features. “If anyone tries to attack you, I’m punching their lights out.” The furious blaze in her eyes implies this is no figure of speech. But then she forces a chuckle, the glare vanishing like a nightmare in the sun.

Rather than dwell on her abrupt transition, her kaleidoscopic moods somehow even more disturbing than his unwelcome reception, he stares about at this new town. “What a magnificent settlement,” he murmurs in awe. He feels like a sightseer, craning his neck and twisting to take it all in. The metal ramps wend about in open-air paths that are dizzying after the familiar confines of Vault 87, his stomach lurching at the unexpected thought of being not only above ground, but _above_ the ground, with only a thin barrier between him and empty air…

Unaware of his sudden wave of vertigo, Jinx cheerily bumps her shoulder against him as his pace slows through the gates. “Keep saying things like that, and you’ll make more friends than you’ll know what to do with.”

She only chuckles at his strained, “I certainly hope so.”

There are more people than in Big Town, and even though Jinx smiles and nods at a good number of them, there is less feeling of camaraderie, the community less tightly knit. For all that Jinx may dwell here, she is less obviously welcome, more recognized as an outsider. They receive more than a few strange looks as he follows behind her—and he still remembers to bend slightly, to keep his limbs loose and unthreatening—but none challenge him.

A dark-skinned woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat tied under her chin runs up the steep hill towards them. “You’re back! I just wanted to give you a little something—from all of us, as thanks for what you’re doing out there,” the woman exclaims, pressing a bottle of Nuka Cola to Jinx’s hand, so firmly that Jinx can only refuse it by flat out dropping it.

“Thanks, Deb. I really appreciate it,” she responds, smiling warmly. “You know you can always just drop it off with Moira too, though. You don’t have to run up to me each time…”

“Hey, I like greeting you,” Deb says cheekily, lips stretched into a warm smile as she pats Jinx on the back. “Who’s your friend here?” Her gaze travels up Fawkes’ form, taking in his green skin, his height, and the nightmare of his face. He is keenly aware of how monstrous and oversized he must appear, especially next to the diminutive Jinx, and tries bowing from the waist in greeting. She does not flinch, but moves slightly closer to Jinx.

“I am Fawkes.” The words still feel rusty, but at least the past few days of use have provided some much-needed smoothness.

“I’m Deborah. Deb for short.” She does not actually offer her hand to shake even though he sees her arm twitch. There are still limits, it appears. But at least she speaks willingly enough to him, her eyes meeting his rather than dropping. “Welcome to Megaton.”

Jinx bites her lip, practically dancing in place before asking the question that’s weighing heavy on her mind. “By the way, have you seen Dogmeat? Charon said he was dropping him off…”

“Oh, yes! Little Maggie and Harden have been making quite a fuss over him. I bet they’re spoiling your dog rotten right now.”

The wanderer’s relief is palpable, previously unrecognized tension draining from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. “Great! I’ll go look for them right now. Thanks again for the Nuka,” she adds, raising the bottle in mock toast.

Fawkes follows her to one of the larger homes near the gate, sees her fumbling at the door with a small key, and trails behind her as she enters the building. A Mister Handy greets her with a tinny voice, causing her to laugh delightedly. “Oh, Wadsworth, how I missed you. Let us elope and run away together,” she croons, stashing her gear into various lockers.

                “That would be most inappropriate considering our professional relationship. However, I do believe my humor array has recharged itself if you would enjoy a joke,” the robot butler responds primly.

As Wadsworth launches into an anecdote about cannibals and clowns, Jinx turns to Fawkes with an elaborate shrug. “I need to sell some of the better gear, go pick up Dogmeat, free Gob… and get you a proper bed. I have a room upstairs, but you are…” Her voice trails off as she bites her lip awkwardly, miming her hands to the side, then upward.

“I am too big,” he finishes for her.

“Mhm. So I have more purchases to make. At least I can get changed out of this tin can before heading to Crater Supply. I’ve got to do one quick thing on my own, but after that you can join me. I mean— you don’t have to come with me,” she adds quickly. “Whatever you want to do. You can rest here, you can go eat, whatever you want. I mean, you can tag along if you want, but you are under no obligation whatsoever.”

_And how many times did you tell Charon that_? Fawkes wonders, both uneasy and amused by how insistent she is. Rather than voice that, he only speaks, “I would follow you, if you have no objections.”

“Great!” Her face splits into a wide grin, brighter than sunshine. “If you can just get that one buckle again…” She turns, letting him get the obstinate piece of her armor, then squirms out of the bulky pieces. Once free, she skips up the stairs two at a time, already pulling up her undershirt and heedless of the flash of bare breasts before Fawkes hastily averts his gaze. Fawkes studies the wall carefully until she returns, fully clothed and now dressed in some sort of vaguely mercenary-looking outfit, leather and cloth reinforced with metal patches. It looks quite competent, even if it lacks the protection of her power armor.

“Jinx, I must ask a question,” he says uneasily, keeping his gaze averted.

“Fire away.”

“Do all vault-dwellers…” He feels his cheeks grow heated, and idly wonders what sort of color he must be turning. Unaltered humans turn various shades of red or pink when embarrassed, but under his yellow-green pigment… perhaps he looks orange? Even purple? He is distracting himself from the matter at hand. “Do all vault-dwellers lack nudity taboos? Or is it just yourself?” That last question comes out far too accusingly, and he cringes at how his words linger in the air. He _thinks_ she views him as an equal, but for all the concern she shows, he may as well be furniture.

Fortunately, she does not seem offended. “Why does it bother you?” she counters, one eyebrow cocked. There is no challenge to her voice, merely a sort of confused intellectual curiosity.

The unexpected response makes him flounder for words, jaw hanging slack before he swallows, gathering his thoughts. “Normal social cues dictate that men and women remain fully—or at least mostly—clothed while in one another’s company.”

“But why? Your Vault suit’s ragged and hanging open anyway,” she argues, patting her chest to emphasize the point. Thankfully, she does not actually open her shirt in a more vivid demonstration. “And even if I were topless, I guarantee there are men out there with bigger tits than I have. I don’t have breasts; I have _nipples with ambition._ ” She pronounces that with mock stentorian tones, voice dropping and hands waving as if announcing the end of days.

He chokes at that, and only the evil glint of her smirk keeps him grounded. At least she appears aware of how ridiculous she is being.

“Sexual dimorphism means that certain traits are considered especially appealing…” he begins, but she interrupts with a raucous burst of laughter.

“Really? Are you going to try and pop out an evolutionary psychology argument on me?” she asks playfully, slapping his hand in mock chiding. “You realize how ridiculous that is? Trying to claim that so many learned behaviors have some kind of biological basis, and it just so conveniently happens to _affirm_ our own biases… I don’t think that holds any sort of merit.” Her eyes are dangerous with delight, though he cannot determine whether it’s at his discomfort or the chance to trot out seldom-used phrases.

He rubs his wrist slowly, more out of habit than any residual sting from her light strike. “Very well. I cannot seem to adequately explain _why_ it bothers me, but it does,” he says morosely. “Is that acceptable?”

She bites her lip, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Then that’s all you needed to say.” Her voice is soft and surprisingly gentle. “I’ll be honest, it just doesn’t bother me because… well, I’m weird. I’d walk around naked all day if I could, in the privacy of this house.”

“Please don’t.”

She has to bite her lip even harder to keep from laughing at his aggrieved indignation, crossing her arms in front of her as her shoulders quake. “It’s just that growing up in a vault, tight quarters, always having to be good and under wraps… well, this is freedom. Maybe a strange sort of freedom, but I don’t _have_ to listen to—to what people expect of me.” Her mouth quirks upward, lips pulled taut under the edge of her teeth in a smile that would be innocently endearing if it weren’t for the words coming out of it. “You know, when I first got this house, and it was just me and Wadsworth… I took off my vault suit and just stood there on the stairs in my skivvies. Just thinking ‘wow. I can _do_ this.’ Because there was no one else around.” The smile broadens, her arms hugging about herself more tightly. “Took me a full five minutes before I worked up the nerve to take my skivvies off too. Just because I decided that if I want to be naked in my own home, who gives a damn?”

The rhetorical question goes unanswered, as Fawkes once again finds himself dumbfounded beyond speech.

“It never bothered Charon. Or at least—“ She pauses, her shrug just a little too casual. “Well. He never said it bothered him. Not that I was ever trying to flaunt it or anything, since I at least wore my underwear around him, but my skivvies keep me more covered than some of the raider outfits out there.”

“You are a very strange woman,” Fawkes finally says after much deliberation.

A grin scythes across her face. “I am a very strange _person_. I’m actually surprised it bothers you so much. I guess I just assumed the FEV had erased some of that cultural programming.”

“Why would it have done that?” he asks, his turn to be curious.

She flushes, coughing into a closed fist. With carefully clinical tones, she begins, “I took the liberty of reading some of the notes on the FEV’s subject alteration. With the loss of secondary sexual characteristics and the sterility that seems to have ensued, I just assumed…”

“Did you perhaps think I was a woman?” Fawkes does not feel indignant; rather, surprised. He feels less insulted and more curious about how Jinx could look at him—large, muscled, with a voice far deeper than any they have met—and not assume him to be masculine.

Jinx dismisses that thought with a wave of her hand. “Nah. Not that it’s my business whatever’s in your pants, but I just pinged you as male. I guess I just thought most of the desires or social constructs would fade with the loss of any obvious sexual determinants.” Her air of scientific authority dissolves in a puddle of giggles. “So much for that thought.”

“I may have forgotten my human past, but the socialization appears to remain intact,” he feels the urge to point out. He cannot even address the ‘desires’ portion of her statement, not having had the opportunity to pursue any sort of inklings in that direction. Even if his equipment still functions, being alternately imprisoned and beaten has suppressed any inclination to experiment. “I remembered the layout of the vault, so I see no reason that the rest would not lie dormant.”

“Fair enough. I am truly sorry for discomforting you though.” Her apologetic smile does seem sincere, and she squeezes his arm briefly. Taking this as a small triumph, he elects not to ask her about her far too personal boundaries. Then again, he has seen her similarly physical with others, from Red’s enthusiastic hug to her wild dancing last night in Big Town. Perhaps it is just another symptom of her strangeness. “If I bother you or make you feel uncomfortable in any sort of way, you can always speak up. I’m… well…”

“An overly amorous molerat,” he deadpans, earning a startled laugh as his reward.

“What’s this? You do make jokes after all!”

He chuckles, cracking his knuckles. “Only once per day. And we should make the most of those errands you mentioned.”

“Sure. Just… gotta do one thing on my own. Lady business,” she adds with a playful wink, tapping a finger to her lips as she palms something from one of the lockers. “Make yourself at home. Snacks are in the fridge.” With that, she darts out the door.

Left alone save for the whirring butler, Fawkes elects to investigate the small bookshelf on the first floor. She has already placed her new copy of Homer’s _Odyssey_ on it, next to a dog-eared medical journal and some well-used tapes labeled as ‘Project Purity’ journals. One is set aside from the others, a spidery penciled script on the label reading ‘Better Days.’ It appears the most loved of the set, so frequently handled that dust has not had the chance to accumulate on or around it. He wonders what is recorded on that one.  Music? Without a player of his own though, he cannot test that hypothesis.

His attention turns to the next few books on the shelf; in all honesty, the only other two books on the shelf. A half-burnt and torn cover obscures the title, but flipping through it he realizes it is a book of poetry by a gentleman named Robert Frost. The fragile paper feels strange under his fingers, and he carefully shuts it and sets it aside for fear of ruining the volume. The other book is slim, the spine nearly broken but pages still intact. Faded lettering reads ‘ _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus’_ and smaller font elaborates that it is authored by one Mary Shelley. Remembering Three Dog’s ill-timed public service announcement, Fawkes feels little urge to read it at this time.

So he helps himself to the refrigerator after all, pulling out a bottle of Nuka Cola and popping the cap off against the edge of a table. Drinking slowly, he opens one of the lockers by the small kitchen. She had told him to make himself at home, after all.

The locker holds an impressive array of armor, from scrapped-together pieces of leather and metal that look as if they were scavenged for parts to heavy metal armor and thick combat leathers, including a set of black and white gear that looks far more professional and intimidating than the ramshackle collection of the others, as if taken from an organized faction…

Well. It looks as if she has made more enemies than just the Enclave. But the one article that catches his attention is a worn leather jacket carefully set to the side, black leather scuffed raw about the shoulders and elbows. It looks far too big for Jinx’s frame, but too short in the sleeves and chest for Charon. He wonders if she is saving it for someone. A poison-green snake is emblazoned on the back, the threads far brighter than anything else he has seen in the wastes so far, aside from Jinx’s hair.

The other lockers by the door are similarly insightful. She has enough miscellaneous weaponry to equip a small army—or take one on. A variety of hand-guns, including everything from silenced pistols to scoped Magnums with heavy grips. Three hunting rifles, several shotguns, even some odds and ends like brass knuckles and belts of grenades and mines, sorted by whether they emitted electromagnetic pulses, plasma, or more conventional frag grenades. Fawkes quickly loses interest in tallying each individual item, taken aback by the sheer magnitude of her collection. She even has a _Fat Man_ in there, though its appearance is strange and patchwork, carefully cobbled together from more bits and pieces of others she was forced to make do with.

_Under the laughter and too-much-touching is someone prepared to take on the world._ _And win._

He does not even know why he is surprised anymore. Of _course_ she would win if she dared to take on the forces of the entire Wasteland. She burns like the sun, inescapably pulling in those around her. And she manages to hide the steel under silken words and silly stories, the contrast making it all the more chilling when she does show her anger.

What does he really know about her?

_She is… a hero to those in need. A town of abandoned children trusts her. She would have freely saved me without my offered aid in exchange_ … The words echo through his mind in a litany, a soft chant against the strangeness of this world that the friendliest and most open person would be the one most capable of destroying it three times over. His reverie is interrupted as the object of his ruminations barges back through the doors, humming with far too much joy for a woman with such an arsenal.

“Hey there! Hope you weren’t too bored, but I’m ready to head out again.” Her smile is like a beacon, lighting up her face and drawing the eye. She looks far younger without the bulk of her armor pressing on her, hopping from one foot to another and dancing like a flame made flesh.

“What were you doing?” he asks, thinking back to whatever she had palmed before leaving.

She just laughs airily, twirling on one foot and flapping her hand dismissively. “Girl things. I’ll tell you later, don’t worry.” The gaiety drops as she cocks an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “I’ll tell you the truth, no worries. Just… not right now. You might need plausible deniability.”

“You are hardly reassuring,” Fawkes rumbles disapprovingly, crossing his arms in turn. Aware of how he looms without trying, he attempts to press his back against the wall, allowing himself to slump somewhat closer to her height. “You said we are friends. Companions. I think that deserves a bit of honesty.”

“And I want to protect you, just in case this goes south,” is the pleading response, her arms uncrossing as she holds her hands up in mute surrender.

“Were you doing what’s right, or what’s left?” The words feel strange passing his lips, but the echo of her own rant carries the desired sting. Her back stiffens and she blinks fiercely, biting her lip.

“I was doing what is right. Just… unfortunately, that can skate the lines of the law,” she says carefully. “But it was right, I promise you that. I stole nothing but knowledge, and even that was nothing but the confirmation of an absence.” Her eyes are guarded now, carefully blank as she stares up at him. “Please, believe me.”

That softly whispered plea could break a man.

So he nods, dimly aware that even this could be a careful manipulation, feigned vulnerability and weakness covering darker intent. Like soft smiles and dimpled cheeks masking a woman who could outfit an army from the contents of a single locker.

The duality maddens him.

“I believe you,” he says finally. And that is true, even if he wonders at just how quickly he grew to trust this young woman. “I trust your knowledge of this place and superior expertise in this matter. But once that is corrected—once I learn more of the ways of Megaton and the Capital Wasteland—I hope there will be no secrets.”

“I hope so too,” is the quick response. He almost snorts, realizing that hope is not the same as a promise. As if reading his mind, she adds, “I only make promises I can keep, Fawkes. So I don’t make ‘em lightly.”

Rather than push the tense conversation even further, he switches gears entirely. “Fair enough. Shall we prepare for your other errands?”

Her grin washes away the remnants of her too-somber expression. “Yes. Though as fair warning, I may load you up like a pack brahmin.”

She asks him to carry much of the material—a few sets of armor, including the scavenged power armor from their foray at the satellite tower, spare rifles and pistols, several fusion batteries, and enough chems to fill a knapsack—but also pulls several large pouches of rattling caps from various hidden spots about the house, such as under her mattress, a loose metal panel of the staircase, and from the toe of a spare set of combat boots. She keeps a running commentary on the location of each cache, letting Fawkes know that each is fair game should ‘expenses’ come up, though she does not elaborate on the nature of said expenses.

After these preparations, rather than going immediately to the general store, she detours around the perimeter of the settlement. He spots two small children playing with a dog that he recognizes, and Jinx’s shrill cry of “Dogmeat! Good boy!” causes the dog to immediately perk up, racing towards them and nearly bowling Jinx over with his enthusiasm.

“Dogmeat! I missed you so much! Were you taking good care of Maggie and Harden?” she cries, rubbing her nose into the dog’s fur and breathing deeply. The dog must smell of dirt at best, but she lets out a contented sigh anyway.

The dark-skinned boy frowns, crossing his arm as he insists, “We were taking care of _him.”_

“And you were taking great care of him, I bet!” Her words sound genuine, not condescending in the slightest; Fawkes is not quite sure how she manages that. “Was he any trouble?”

“No, miss Jinx,” the little girl says, twisting her toe against the metal flooring as she stares up at Fawkes unabashedly. Hovering between uncertainty at addressing a stranger and childish curiosity, Jinx resolves her dilemma with a simple introduction.

“Maggie, Harden, this is Fawkes. He’s a friend of mine.”

Maggie blinks owlishly at him, tilting her head to the side in a gesture that immediately reminds him of Jinx. Was this mannerism acquired from watching Jinx, or had it evolved separately? “Is he gonna live with you?”

“If he wants to, sure.”

Frowning, the child then asks, “Are you marrying him?”

Jinx spits, choking on her laughter. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Then are you adopting him?”

Raising an eyebrow at Fawkes, Jinx simply shrugs. “In a manner of speaking?” The slightest of uptilts turns that from a statement to a question. “We’re friends and traveling companions, so I figure that’s close enough.”

Maggie refuses to drop the subject, following doggedly as Jinx leads the way to the yellow building helpfully labeled ‘Crater Supply.’ “Billy says you only live with someone if you’re family. Unless it’s Charon.”

“Why is Charon the exception?” the woman asks guardedly, pale eyes narrowing as if trying to close off her defenses.

“Because he’s your faithful ghoul manservant.” Just like that, as if it’s simple truth.

Fawkes can see the storm breaking in Jinx’s eyes, the ragged edge of pain and tears sleeting across her expression. “That’s one way of looking at it.” Her voice is uncharacteristically flat, the wanderer grabbing the items out of Fawkes’ hands and pushing into the store to flee all the implicit assumptions in that well-meaning declaration. Dogmeat nearly gets his tail caught in the door, with only a hasty kick from Jinx swinging it open enough to avert that fate.

Rather than follow, Fawkes hesitates, looking down at Maggie with her wide eyes and innocent brutality. He can only remain in Jinx’s shadow for so long before he learns to stand on his own, and if a child can trust him, perhaps adults will do the same. So he lingers, kneeling by her as she stares at him.

“So if Jinx is adopting you, how old are you?”

He swallows, trying to think about what the true answer would be. “Very old, child. I have long since lost track of the years.”

“Older than Jinx?” she asks shrewdly, eyes narrowing in calculation.

“Most likely.”

“So how can she be your mommy?”

Coughing, he wonders at the monomania of children. “Perhaps we can simply be friends who live together until we become like family.”

“But how are you friends then, if you’re so much older? Kids and adults aren’t friends,” she points out, crossing her arms in emphasis.

Fawkes immediately goes for the most obvious discrepancy in that statement. “Children cannot get married or adopt either.” Then the second most obvious flaw strikes, and he asks, “Is Jinx an adult or a child?”

“She’s both. Half woman and half child, like Billy says.” The sentence is said sagely, astonishingly mature from such a young face, and Fawkes briefly wonders just who Billy is. Before he can ask though, he hears Jinx’s voice rising from inside the shop.

“Moira, stop all the nudge-nudge wink-wink nonsense! I just need the _bed_. Something big enough for a super mutant, alright? Keep that hideous statue out of my home!”

“Oh, but dear, I’ll throw it in for free! It’s really time you gave that old place some personality!” a bubbly voice responds, similarly loud in an effort to be heard over Jinx’s outburst.

Kicking one foot up behind her, Maggie hops sideways. “Moira likes to decorate with her themes,” she whispers confidingly. “But Billy says her taste is ‘questionable.’” She even holds up two fingers on each hand, curling them inward to form quotation marks.

At this point, Jinx emerges from the yellow building, cheeks red and arms crossed. “After far too many impertinent questions, we have you a bed! Now let’s grab Simms and go to Moriarty’s.” She stomps her foot for emphasis, gesturing up the ramp with a grandiloquent sweep of her arm.

“If you’re going to Moriarty’s, I’m going to find Harden. Billy doesn’t like me hanging around there,” Maggie chirps.

“Sorry, sweetie. But we’ll play tag later, I promise!” Unlike earlier, the promise slips easily from her lips, Jinx sealing it with a peck to the young girl’s forehead.

Maggie giggles, her smile almost eclipsing her face. “Okay!”

Jinx fondly watches her skip off before shaking her head and shoulders briskly, shedding her residual irritation like a dog shedding water. “Finally, a _fun_ chore,” she mumbles under her breath. “Seriously, Fawkes, if I don’t go play tag with her and Harden before we leave Megaton, give me a good smack upside the head. Promises are serious business, especially promises to children.”

He nods, following her through the sprawling mess of paths that wind about Megaton. “I feel obligated to remind you that one of my ‘smacks’ may detach your head from your shoulders.”

“More reason for me to keep my promise, then.” Her teeth flash in a smile, equal parts soft charm and wicked grace as she spots a weathered man in a cowboy hat and long duster. “Hey, Sheriff! I got something that needs your attention!”

“Stayin’ out of trouble, I hope? I don’t got the bullets to waste,” the man responds with a slow, even drawl. He only examines Fawkes briefly, but the super mutant has the distinct impression that the glance was as thorough as it needed to be. His voice resonates with quiet strength, and Fawkes reflects that this man would make a poor enemy.

With an amiable chuckle, Jinx replies, “You know me, Sheriff. I always do my best to stay on the right side of the Regulators. This here is Fawkes, one of my friends.” She waits long enough for a brief introduction and for Simms to tip his hat in greeting before continuing. “Look, I’m about to approach Moriarty about Gob and Nova’s contracts. I want you there as backup to make sure everything’s on the up and up.”

“You plan on talking with words or fists?”  Simms asks, raising a grizzled eyebrow.

She crosses her arms, scuffing her feet along the ground impatiently. “Words, of course. I’m not trying to upset the balance here, Simms. I just… you know what he’s doing with Gob’s not right. ‘Indentured servitude’ is just a fancy word for slavery, and I’m sick of it.”

“So you’re doin’ what I ain’t?” The set of his jaw tells Fawkes this is tricky territory, but Jinx squares her shoulders back, nodding curtly.

“You have your priorities, sheriff, and I got mine. I respect what you do, but there are things a wanderer can do that an established authority figure can’t. I aim to compensate Moriarty fairly, but I want to make sure he doesn’t try twisting the knife more’n what’s fair.” Their gazes lock, Jinx’s eyes almost glowing as if attempting to uplink an unquantifiable amount of data. Transmission received, Simms is the first to break eye contact.

“I get your gist, Miss Jinx. Let’s go to the saloon.”

They follow, super mutant and aging sheriff alike trailing in the wake of an energetic young half woman, half child. If this were a more ordered universe—perhaps something written in a book, or an old tape from before the War—Fawkes feels narrative causality would dictate that Sheriff Simms take the lead, as a symbol of both authority and experience. But where Jinx moves, men follow, and they enter the dingy saloon.

A ghoul stands behind the bar, tattered skin and raw lips twisting in a smile of genuine pleasure. “Welcome back, Jinx! Always good to see you,” he calls, voice like gravel bleeding.

“Hey Gob. Good to see you too.” Her smile is dazzling, brilliant without warmth. Fawkes blinks for just a moment, realizing she had never mentioned… well, why would she mention Gob being a ghoul? To her, he is just a man like anyone else. “Actually, I need to talk with Moriarty.”

“Aye? And what is so important as to bring our little saint from the vault in, with the sheriff in tow no less?” comes a thick Irish brogue, the words oily with disdain and sneering calculation. An older man comes out from some back room, arms crossed over a faded shirt that has seen better days.

Jinx’s smile widens. Fawkes has seen pictures of jungle cats with friendlier expressions. “Hey, I got a business proposition for you! Do you happen to have Gob’s contract on hand right now?”

Moriarty blinks, taken back by the abrupt demand. Simms catches on quickly, his smile merciless as a razor beneath his beard. “The lady asked for Gob’s contract. Since he is an ‘indentured servant’ and not a slave, he _must_ have a contract, I do believe.”

“I understand you purchased him out of the goodness of your heart, but I _do_ believe…” Jinx continues, echoing Simms. “Fifteen years of working for you, even taking out his room and board, should be more than enough. And if you are being a _good businessman_ ,” she adds emphatically, hands on her hips, her fingers carefully tilted away from the grips of her laser pistols, “You would be keeping track of his ongoing debt. Records of how much you paid for him. His daily wages, minus his food…”

Off balance and off kilter, Moriarty’s mouth gapes open. Behind him, Gob is barely moving, his hands gripping the edge of the bar so tightly his knuckles would be white if any of the skin were still intact. His eyes shine with hope, fixed on Jinx with a desperate hunger that twists through him like a knife.

“So show me the contract, Moriarty. I have the caps and I want to purchase the remainder of his services,” the girl continues ebulliently, pulling a thin bag of from one pocket. She tosses it easily in the air, the bottle caps clattering inside as she catches it in her outstretched palm.

Finally, the Irishman coughs, hocking a gob of something dark and wet into an ashtray. “Fine, my dear. But do remember my office is a mess…”

“Still on paperwork? How… archaic. I thought you kept most of your important information on that old terminal in the back?” Jinx asks innocently. Too innocently, her eyes wide like a child’s, blithely ignoring Simms’ sudden sideways glare. Fawkes restrains an inappropriate laugh, thinking back to her fingers dancing over the keyboards in Vault 87 until the terminals relinquished their machine-secrets to her eager eyes.

She has been poking where she does not belong, skating the lines of the law to do what’s right.

And she does not care.

Fawkes is not quite sure he does either.

Still, having devoted himself this far, Simms seems inclined to support her play until the game ends. “I believe she is right. Though if you have no contract, either electronic or paper, then you have no hold over that man.” _And may Jinx have mercy on you if try to keep him, as I certainly won’t_. The last goes unspoken, but the harshness in his voice—and the way that _he_ deliberately keeps his hand by his pistol, mirroring how precisely Jinx kept _her_ hands away from her weapons—means he does not have to speak it aloud.

“Then let me fetch it for you, kind do-gooder,” the saloon owner grits out.

Jinx immediately follows him to the back room, sticking her hands in her back pockets with a too-casual smile. When Moriarty growls in protest though, Simms gently pulls her out by the elbow. “You are hardly an unbiased observer. Allow me.” With that, he smoothly replaces her position.

While Moriarty curses, ripping his office apart for a contract that Fawkes suspects does not exist, Jinx immediately wheels towards Gob. Crossing her arms in front of her, she starts tapping a staccato rhythm with one foot. “Any thought about where you’d like to go, or what you’d like to do after this?”

The bartender shakes his head, staring at Jinx with milky eyes. “I never thought I’d leave this place.” His voice is quiet, almost reverential despite the gravelly tones.

A sympathetic pang flares through Fawkes, reflecting on how his own days spent endlessly staring at the ceiling, counting prime numbers backwards and forwards. There had been moments he thought the small cell would be his tomb… except that he would die a violent and bloody death at the hands of his brethren, unable to even count on time’s passage to bring an end.

Are ghouls similarly physiologically immortal? He never had the opportunity to ask, and while this does not seem an appropriate time, he files that question away for future perusal. He has so many questions now, he imagines stuffing them in his pockets until they overflow, trailing behind him to mark his path through this strange sun-lit world.

“So where does your imagination take you, when the reality becomes too weary?” he asks instead, cueing a startled widening of Gob’s eyes. The ghoul blinks at him without comprehension, the fact that a super mutant is talking—and intelligibly, no less— shocking him beyond understanding the question. Fawkes quietly repeats it. “Where does your imagination take you?”

Gob smiles weakly, the exposed tendon of his cheek strumming tightly with the effort. “Imagination’s not the real thing. I thought… I thought I’d be tagging along with Jinx. Like Daring Dashwood and Argyle. But listening to the news—seeing the messes you come back home with—I’m no adventurer. I’d just slow you down. Probably get you killed,” he grates, the admission painfully echoing Fawkes’ own words. There is longing on his face, but it is overshadowed by the sad awareness of his own frailty. “I’d be better off back home in Underworld.”

Jinx reaches out with a gentle hand, heedless of the necrosis as she touches a finger to the edge of Gob’s smile. “Carol misses you.” Her palm cups his cheek, and Gob sighs—actually sighs, and Fawkes blinks, momentarily troubled. As physical as Jinx is, does she ever reflect on how her casual contact would feel to someone as touch-starved as a ghoul in a human settlement…? Blithely unaware of Fawkes’ unease, she continues, “And you don’t have to stick around Underworld. I can always escort you to Rivet City, or wherever else you think you might find a fresh start.”

“I’d like to see her again,” he admits. She pulls her hand back, grinning. Gob still looks dumbstruck, his hand floating upward to feel where she touched him. An indirect joining.

“Good. And… is Nova around right now? Or is she…?” Jinx’s gaze flicks upstairs.

Gob’s lips turn downwards, the troubled frown difficult to distinguish from the awed smile of earlier with his ruined facial features. “Jericho paid for her services. He’s not usually into romance.”

Blowing through her lips in a long exhale, Jinx sighs. “Well, short of marching up there and hosing them down… would Nova be willing to leave too? Like, say, tonight? If Moriarty has nothing on you, I bet he has nothing on Nova either, so I could get both of you out of here in one swoop…”

“She’s been wanting out from Moriarty’s thumb since her first day,” Gob says quietly. “She would be overjoyed.”

At this point, Moriarty storms back into the bar, looking ready to spit poison. Simms trails behind him, his hands still a little too-casually near his weapon.

“I appear to have misplaced the paperwork for Gob’s contract,” the saloon owner says through gritted teeth.

Jinx hops herself up to sit on the bar, crossing her legs in front of her. “I understand accidents happen.” She smiles sympathetically, even if the warmth does not quite reach her eyes. “I am still willing to pay a compensation. Would I be correct in assuming you also misplaced Nova’s paperwork?”

Moriarty recoils as if punched, the color draining from his face. “Now, lass, it’s _one_ thing to take the zombie, but my best draw…?”

“I’m not _taking_ her,” Jinx emphasizes, straightening her back to give herself as much height as possible. “I’m _giving_ her a choice. What she wants to do is completely up to her.” She frowns, fingers drumming against the wooden bar. “If she really wants to keep working for you as an… ‘independent contractor,’ let’s say, that’s up to her. And you. But keeping her indefinitely until she has ‘worked off her debt’ is also pretty damn fishy. _Maybe_ you should consider an actual contract.” Her smile is beautiful and merciless. “And maybe you should reconsider the slurs while you’re at it, smoothskin.”

“I’m going to need quite a lot of caps to make up for the loss in business—“ the saloon owner begins, but Jinx immediately cuts over him.

“Three thousand caps for the pair of them. They are free to do as they wish, _including_ continue working for you, if they are so inclined. Just to make it clear that I am not purchasing them as slaves or employees,” she adds, briefly glancing aside to Simms. He nods approvingly. “All I am doing is simply making sure that even though you have unfortunately lost their contracts, _you_ still get compensation, and _they_ are able to leave free and clear. They owe you nothing past this, and Simms is here to witness that offer. Are we in agreement, Moriarty?”

The man glares at Jinx, hovering between greed and anger at her high-handed tactics. He looks about ready to spit, but then forces a smile, his lilting tones turning wheedling. “Now, that is a mighty fine offer, lass. But I will still need time; at least a wee bit of notice, or how will I deal with the caravans coming in with short staff? A puir old man like myself, parting with my best girl and my best boy?” He wraps an arm casually over Gob’s shoulders, squeezing the ghoul close in a mocking parody of affection. Gob grits his teeth, shoulders drawing up tight as if curling inward.

“For your inconvenience, I will be willing to front up an additional thousand caps. But they leave _now_. On this, I will not budge,” Jinx says almost pleasantly, her eyes are flat as stones. “And speaking of budging, you might want to move that arm. I don’t think Gob likes it much. And neither do I, for that matter.” She might as well be discussing the weather for all the emotion she allows on her features.

It is a credit to his courage—or perhaps his business acumen—that Moriarty simply smiles. “Four thousand caps is an acceptable offer.”

“Lotsa caps, right?” Jinx smirks, pulling out multiple small bags of jangling caps. “You can count these if you wish. But… lotsa caps.”

Something about that phrase infuriates Moriarty, his face going from white to red as he immediately starts counting the money, caps rattling across the bar as he divides them into piles. “Stay right there. None of you are leaving until this is all done,” he growls.

Footsteps start coming down the stairs, and a leathery-faced man with a dark beard gives a low whistle at the sight of everyone gathered down. “Damn. A vaultie, a mutie, and a sheriff all walk into a bar… where’s the punchline?” Behind him, an attractive woman with copper-red hair—looking vibrant but natural, unlike Jinx’s neon mop—pulls her clothing into a more presentable state.

“Hey, that one yours?” the man asks, pointing a finger at Fawkes. Rather than looking intimidated, he grins as if spoiling for a fight. “Finally got tired of fucking the big ghoul and wanted one bigger and uglier?”

Jinx just laughs, shrugging playfully. “Don’t worry, Jericho. If I ever want to upgrade my ugly, I know where you live.”

“And don’t _you_ worry, baby girl. If I ever get tired of real women—“ Here he gives the other woman a squeeze, which she allows with a slight roll of her eyes. “—and want to start screwing little girls, I know where you live too.” His smile is broad and wicked.

“Fawkes, please meet the ever-lovely Nova and our favorite neighbor, Jericho. Jericho and Nova, please meet my friend Fawkes,” Jinx intones, bowing her head as if this were a formal introduction. Uncertain of how to respond, Fawkes just nods his head.

Nova nods back, taking a drag off a cigarette. “Nice to meet you too, Fawkes.” Her gaze drifts to the side, where Moriarty swears under his breath while counting the caps. “Closing time already?”

“Yes,” Jinx says quickly. “If you want to. I’m buying you and Gob out of here—you don’t owe Moriarty anything else after this.”

The woman just smiles, eyes guarded. “So what do I owe you?”

“Nothing, unless you count trying to stay out of the same pit,” Jinx admits, kicking out her legs.

“You wouldn’t be working here anymore?” Jericho asks as if that was the only important part of the conversation. He turns to face Nova, looking ready to grab her by the shoulders, but holding back by sheer force of will. Or perhaps the awareness that the sheriff and Jinx are both watching, possibly ready to crack skulls for any presumed impropriety. “Would you leave?”

Nova shrugs, crossing her arms in front of her. “Depends on what the terms were.” Her voice is distant, eyes still shuttered against emotion.

“Moriarty! Would—“ Jericho hollers, apparently desperate to see what will become of the prostitute.

“Shut up, lad! I’ve got to finish counting these!”

“Look, Jericho,” Jinx says sympathetically, sliding off the bar and patting Jericho on the shoulder, “Maybe you better just go back home and to bed. We’re still sorting this out.”

“So help me, if the _one_ decent piece of tail in this town up and leaves because of you, you _owe_ me, fuckin’ goody-two-shoes,” the man spits, swatting her hand away.

“Two bottles of whiskey with your name on ‘em. Got it.”

Watching the man slam the door shut as he leaves, Nova quietly murmurs, “You really have to yank his chain?”

“Have to? No. Want to? Oh yes.” Jinx shrugs helplessly, giving a lopsided smile. “Jericho’s… not that bad. Not that _good_ ,” she hastily adds, “But not that bad. We might not get along all the time, but it’s friendly hostility. Sort of.” She abruptly switches topics, lowering her voice. “I was serious about buying off Moriarty. If you _want_ to stay here, you can. Not judging. But I’m taking Gob to Underworld, and if you want to get a fresh start in Rivet City or somewhere else, we could take you.”

Nova stares at the door, the cigarette dangling loosely from one hand. “I might need a night to think on it, to be honest. I—no one ever thinks they want to be a whore, but if I got to keep more of what I made, it might not be so bad. It’s no worse than some of the jobs I’ve had before.”

“Then that’s your choice. Do you want to spend the night at my place?” Jinx asks, hands restlessly fidgeting behind her back. “Just to pack up your things, wake up somewhere that’s not…“ Her voice trails off helplessly.

Giving Jinx a faint nod, Nova raises the cigarette to her lips once more. “Yeah. That might be nice. And you’re taking Gobbie?”

“Yeah.” Jinx cracks a surprisingly shy smile, twisting the toe of her boot into the floor. “And if you want to check out Underworld, they’re pretty nice to us smoothskins. Well, except Crowley, but he’s an ass. You and Gob—“

Nova immediately shakes her head, flicking ash from the end of her cig. “No. Look, it’s real sweet of you to try and play matchmaker, but it would just never work.” Her voice is low, little more than a soft murmur easily lost in the ambient noise of Moriarty’s swearing or the radio playing in the background. Judging from Gob’s lack of reaction—he still hungrily watches Moriarty count caps—the ghoul can’t hear.

 “I’m sorry, I just thought when you said ‘Gobbie’ that maybe you were—“ Jinx shrugs, cheeks darkening with embarrassment.

“I still don’t do johns squishier than me,” Nova says, not unkindly. “And while he’s sweet, I think he’s over his silly little crush.”

_I can imagine why_. Fawkes thinks back on the way Jinx had so casually cupped his cheek and the ghoul’s soft sigh.

“Forget it then. I mean, the offer’s still open if you want us to take you somewhere else, so…”

“Why don’t you help me pack my things and we’ll talk about it?” Nova’s eyes meet Fawkes’, and she smiles wryly. “Just some girl talk.”

Jinx immediately follows, so Fawkes turns his attention back to the bar.

Moriarty is almost through with his counting, and the familiar clank of rattling currency appears to have had a soothing effect. He jingles the last cap with a satisfied, “Four thousand. Girl might have to _buy_ her friends, but at least she pays well.”

The sheriff grunts, making no comment other than, “Well, Gob gets to leave then. Any belongings?”

“Just a spare change of clothes,” the ghoul rasps, shaking himself as waking from a long sleep. “That’s—“

“—more than you came in with,” Moriarty snaps. “Nova’s got some things of her own, but I gave you every stitch you’re wearing. If the little lass wants to take you, she can give you a new pair of trousers.”

The ghoul’s chuckle sounds like rocks going through a grinder. “Fair enough to finally leave. I haven’t felt sunlight for ages.” Walking out from behind the bar, the man breathes deeply, flexing his arms as if about to take flight. Fawkes is struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the way the shirt stretches across his chest. Despite his beaten-down posture, Gob is much stronger than he lets on. Physically, at least; he walks like a man broken, but even that fades, milky gaze turning to the stairs as Jinx and Nova descend.

“Anything you want to take?” Jinx asks, apparently not having heard Moriarty.

Gob shakes his head. “Not even the memories.”


	9. The Stars Burn For Us

Once outside the saloon, Jinx promptly hops up to hug Simms about the shoulders, laughing as his whiskers tickle her face.

“That was magnificent, Simms! Thanks for backing me up in there!” she exclaims even as he pushes her away. She takes the momentum of his gentle shove and twirls in place, arms spread wide as the wings of an airplane.

“It won’t do much for the illusion of impartiality if you keep hanging on to me like that,” he says sternly. “But I was happy to help. Just never could figure out how to do it without guns blazing. The town’s too settled for that sort of vigilante action.”

“So you’re stuck doing what’s left.” Jinx gives Fawkes a sideways grin, the humor not quite reaching her eyes. _Not what’s right, but what’s left_.

“Unfortunately yes. Speaking of that.” He clears his throat, hesitantly turning his attention to Nova. “Miss Nova, you are your own person. But if you would be willing to consider staying in Megaton, I know many of the caravans would greatly appreciate it. We—“

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Jinx snaps, spinning back and waving her finger in Simms’ face. “Nova gets to do what she _wants_ to do, not have to listen to you!” At least this mercurial change in mood is not quite as alarming as before; while she vibrates with barely restrained energy, the flavor of her outrage is defensive rather than hostile.

“Jinx, it’s fine,” the woman cuts in gently. “I know. Just calm down. You don’t always have to protect everyone.” A crooked smile crosses her face as she squeezes Jinx’s arm, tucking her close. “Look, let’s get a bit away from the saloon and talk, why don’t we?”

Gently, Nova steers them down the ramp towards the center of town. Simms follows, while Gob lags just slightly, staring up at the sun with quiet disbelief. Fawkes wonders if he looked that lost when he first emerged from the vault, or if Jinx had that look… or if even then, she was laughing with joy, arms stretched to embrace the sun.

“I don’t mind staying. I _like_ Megaton,” Nova says quietly, still walking with her arm linked through Jinx’s. Side by side with their hair flaming scarlet in the light, they might pass for cousins, if not sisters. “But face it; if I stayed, most people would never see me as anything other than the town whore. And I wouldn’t mind that, not if I got to keep more of what I make and didn’t have to keep to Moriarty’s rules.”

“It would be an awful boon to us if you stayed as well,” Simms admits, catching up on Nova’s other side. “It would keep more of the caps in local circulation, at least.”

“So… let me sleep over at your place. Give Moriarty a night to sweat it out, then I can go back with better terms.” Nova gives Simms a professional smile and a brief pat on the arm. “I reckon with the sheriff in my corner, he won’t be so quick to offer me another bad loan.”

“I would be much obliged to be of service, miss. But I best be going now that you’re all settled.” He gives them a brief tilt of his hat before continuing his sauntering patrol about Megaton.

“Okay, let’s drop your things off at the house first, then we’re going shopping for Gob,” Jinx decides, almost skipping with excitement and pulling Nova with her. “I also have some spare pistols, and I would like both of you to have one. Just a little insurance. Then—oh nuts. I bought you guys out, and I’m already bossing you around. I am very sorry.” She shuffles her feet, blushing furiously.

Nova gives a laugh like warm honey. “Sweetie, you think you have to protect everyone around you. I know you’re trying, but it’s fine.”

“And you look a hell of a lot better than the old miser,” Gob mutters under his breath. When Fawkes turns to look at him, the ghoul claps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head in embarrassment.

“Look. Just to be absolutely clear—I _want_ to do these things, but you don’t have to go along. I just would feel better if both of you got some kind of weapon, and if we got some fresh clothes from Crater Supply,” Jinx continues doggedly, even with her cheeks now matching her hair.

“I don’t need anything, but I might take the chance to amble about. Be nice to spend a day outside the saloon instead of in it.” Nova squeezes Jinx’s arm again, releasing so the woman can unlock the door to her house.

“Hey, don’t worry! However much time you need! I can get you a spare key if you—oh _no_ , Moira!” Her voice rises into a high wail as the door swings open, revealing a heart-shaped bed covered in a gaudy red blanket and an _interesting_ ceiling lamp. Nova, Fawkes, and Gob all tilt their head in unison, trying to make sense of the intertwined figures…

“I don’t even know how she managed to set everything up so quickly,” mutters Jinx, now staring at a row of whiskey and vodka bottles. “I am really very sorry. I haven’t seen _any_ of this before, I swear. The only thing I ordered was the bed.”

Nova chuckles, apparently less embarrassed than Gob, who is still blinking at the lamp. “Feeling a bit lonely?”

“Oh, always.” Jinx says it so flippantly that it might even be true. “But in this case, I just needed a bed big enough for a super mutant. Moira drew her own conclusions.”

“That is for me?” Fawkes supposes he should feel grateful—it does look large—but the shape is far too suggestive. And that’s not forgetting the lamp overhead; it does _not_ look as if it has been designed with safety in mind. What if one of the support hooks breaks with him under it?

Apparently his concern is easy enough to read. “I’m giving the lamp back to Moira. It just—ugh. No. I can’t sleep with it in the house. I’d give it to Dukov, but then I’d have to schlep it across the Wasteland…” she mutters, voice trailing off.

Fawkes looks at the lamp, then at Jinx. Then he snorts. “You mean _I_ would have to carry it across the Wasteland. It’s far larger than you.”

“Eh. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” she says dismissively, hiding her guilty grin behind one hand. “And so much for only one joke a day! But either way, no. That’s going back to Moira. But first…” Jinx rummages in one of the lockers by the door. Having seen her arsenal already, Fawkes simply watches Gob and Nova, wondering if they are as taken aback by the display as he was. Nova does not seem perturbed at all, or perhaps she is simply better at hiding it. Gob appears more awe-struck than anything else.

 “Fawkes, anything and everything in the house is fair game for you as well, since we’ll be living together and watching each other’s backs. I mean it. Anything you think could be useful, grab it. Ammo, weapons, whatever—don’t even think about it.” The way she keeps repeating it, almost pleading faith in her sincerity, makes him shiver.

_How many conversations with Charon have gone this way?_

 Two pistols come out, one in each of her hands as she eyes both Gob and Nova. “Hey, either of you have any experience with guns?”

Nova shrugs, casually holding up her thumb and forefinger with less than an inch of space between. Gob just shakes his head.

“Okay. No sense in a weapon you don’t know how to use,” Jinx begins, but Nova shakes her head.

“You still have errands to do, hon. I know how to use a pistol already, and Simms can give me some more pointers. You can teach Gob on the road. Besides, if all goes well—we won’t _have_ to be you.” Nova leans in, brushing her pale hand over Jinx’s cheek and scratching her behind the ear as if consoling a puppy or small child. “You don’t need to. Besides—it gives me an excuse to talk with that nice sheriff,” she adds lightly. “Let it go.”

“I like being thorough,” the smaller woman mutters. But she gives a quick half-step in, squeezing herself tightly against Nova. She does not do the typical lean in of most people, where only the arms clasp and the upper body touches; Jinx hugs with the entirety of her form. Nova does not seem to mind, just stroking her hair and murmuring something soothing in her ear. Whatever it is must have worked, since Jinx laughs before releasing Nova from the embrace.

“I wouldn’t mind you teaching me. Maybe I can make myself useful on the trip.” Gob smiles liplessly, hands held loosely behind his back. “I’m no Charon, but at least I can keep from slowing you down too much.”

Jinx’s mouth twitches. “I like that you’re not Charon.”

“Well, I think that’s our cue to leave,” Nova says cheerfully, taking Fawkes’ hand—what is it with these women and all the unexpected _touching_? Fawkes shifts uneasily, allowing her to pull him along. “Why don’t you two go shopping? I’d like to borrow Fawkes, if you don’t mind.”

“Fawkes is his own man.” Her lips are tilted up, but the shape of her mouth is more a broken gash than true smile. Her eyes shine, and Fawkes knows what that means.

Nova may know, but her eyes crinkle as she plays along, treating the surface joke as the substance. “Is he now? Well, if you don’t mind then, will you escort me about Megaton?”

“I would be delighted,” he finds himself saying.

* * *

 

“Has Jinx shown you around yet?” Nova asks once outside the house. She also releases his hand, stretching her arms overhead.

“A little. The supply store and the saloon, at least.”

Her laughter is like cola, sweet and bubbling. “Then no, she hasn’t. Let me introduce you to some folks and point out a few other places. Megaton was built up scraps and pieces at a time, so it’s a bit confusing for anyone just coming in.”

Feeling the metal panels groan underfoot, Fawkes shudders. “It feels quite precarious.”

“Perhaps, but it’s held together this long at least.”

He looks down at her, weighing one of the many questions on his mind. Finally, he coughs, deciding to ask at least one. “Nova, I have a question, if I may.”

“I might have an answer.” Her smile is gentle.

“Am I simply unaccustomed to Wasteland traditions? You, Jinx—most of the people I met have been quite…” He gropes for words, attempting to articulate it inoffensively. “Physically affectionate,” is the final phrase he settles on.

“She is very touchy, isn’t she?” Nova chuckles, but it is a resigned sound. “She is very, ah, touch-starved. She would hug the world if it would hug back.” She shrugs, tucking her arms about herself as if chilled. “It’s something she needs, like a fire needs fuel. So I give it to her.”

Thinking back… _she_ initiates most of the contact. She is the one to clasp others to the circle of her arms, laughing and brushing—

“She is lonely. And I am used to dealing with lonely people.” Nova smiles faintly, shaking her head. “If she makes you uncomfortable, you can just tell her, you know. She doesn’t mean to do it. I don’t think she’s even aware of it.”

_Touch-starved as a ghoul living in a human settlement_ …

“You intentionally left them alone,” he says, the gears slowly turning. He does not even bother phrasing it as a question.

“Clever man.” Nova’s smile broadens, and she taps her lower lip with smug satisfaction. “More clever than Jinx, at least. I don’t even know if she likes Gobbie that way, but they’ve never had a chance to just talk with one another.”

Fawkes coughs hesitantly, now wondering about something Nova had said back at the bar. “So the rot is not an active process, then?”

“Oh, no. Ghouls aren’t actually that squishy, even if they look a mess. I still have standards, low as they are, but…” She makes a face, pushing her hands away in a shooing motion. “Maybe I’m just shallow. I like my men to have skin; I couldn’t do it with a ghoul.”

_And you think Jinx could?_

Nova accurately reads his perplexity, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “Jinx is much nicer than I am. I think she’d be able to see the man beneath. And even if not; well.” She shrugs dismissively. “A little hand-holding might be just what they both need.” Reaching out with one hand, she pats Fawkes on the back. “They’ll figure it out.”

“So… _she_ is touch-starved. Why do you—touch—so much?” he asks slowly. While prolonged isolation has left him lonely for human contact, he always imagined for intellectual rather than physical companionship. He is slowly learning that warmth and flesh have their own sort of charm. Just in smaller doses than Jinx metes out.

She favors him with a pitying smile. “Fawkes, I am a hooker.”

“Off the clock.”

“For now.” She shrugs fatalistically, placing her hands in her pockets. “It doesn’t bother me. But let’s make some introductions.”

Nova guides Fawkes back to the town center, pointing out the various sites of interest. The clinic and water treatment plants are places of importance, if not fascination, though Nova’s laughter at describing the acerbic Doc Church makes him curious to meet the man. An immense bomb sits at the center of a congregation of eccentric worshipers in a puddle of radioactive water that gleams murky green under the wan sunlight. When Fawkes expresses his disbelief that the town has an active bomb at its center, Nova quickly explains that no, Jinx deactivated it long before. Her first day in town, in fact.

When he looks at the bomb, he sees Jinx.

_Even in her absence, she remains at the center of it all_.

Nova finishes up the impromptu tour at the Brass Lantern, where Fawkes feels the weight of strangers’ stares heavy on his skin and must duck to avoid hitting his head against the dangling namesake light sources. It is different to be escorted by Nova than Jinx; Nova is a familiar fixture, but lacks the respect that Jinx commands. The fact that he is allowed past the gates is already a point in his favor, but does not fully compensate for the fact that he is a monster among men. A ‘Frankenstein,’ as the radio announcer claimed.

He wonders if Jinx has already read that book on the shelf.

The prostitute makes small talk with various friendly faces, and even attempts to engage Fawkes in the flow of conversation, but it only makes him feel more awkward, the small crowd making him profoundly aware of his prolonged isolation. Every forced utterance scrapes up his throat like a razor, stymied by the knowledge that he already looks so brutish that any attempt to overcompensate with intellectualism would only create further cognitive dissonance…

And now, he wearily reflects, even his internal monologue sounds dredged from a thesaurus. Fortunately, he is soon spared as a familiar mop of fire-red hair becomes visible, the owner half-skipping, half-running into the Brass Lantern with Gob in tow. The broad-shouldered ghoul does look far better in his new clothing, and could pass for a traveling trader in a shirt approaching white and a leather vest lined with small pockets. A brilliant red scarf is tied about his neck, a jaunty touch that Fawkes strongly suspects came from Jinx.

“Hey hey! Who’s the handsomest ghoul you ever saw now, huh?” Jinx laughs, flinging her arms over Gob’s shoulders so that he lurches. But he quickly catches his step, beaming foolishly as he awkwardly shuffles his feet together.

“You’ve definitely gone up in the world, Gobbie,” Nova says appreciatively, her eyes tracing over the fine lines of his clothing with a practiced air. Gob flushes under the attention, the flaking patches about his eyes crinkling with delight.

“Wanna celebrate with dinner out? My treat,” the little Lone Wanderer offers ebulliently, one arm still across Gob’s shoulders. He lists to the side like a capsized vessel, the only way she could so comfortably wrap her arm about him. “Or rather, do me a _favor_ and let’s eat out. I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

Nova snorts, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Well, hon, if it’s a _favor_ , I suppose I can stuff myself. I plan on drinking your fridge dry, and need some food in my belly to soak it up.”

“Go for it. I can’t drink worth a damn anyway.” Jinx’s flippancy is spoiled as she starts giggling madly. “And hey, better than drinking at Moriarty’s.”

“You know he takes the beer and pisses in it, right?” a lean, brown-haired man butts in, leaning cross the counter and scowling. Fawkes remembers he’s one of the Stahl brothers—Andy? Leo? He doesn’t remember all the names from Nova’s hasty introductions, especially when they had been talking to _her_ rather than him.

“Yes, Andy. And so does every passing trader, drifter, or slow-moving brahmin in earshot of you,” Jinx retorts, releasing Gob. “You taking orders tonight, or just gonna keep badmouthing the competition? We’re already here anyways.”

“I’ll take your orders. Hell, dinner’s on the house if you really got Gob and Nova outta that shithole. Anything to annoy that bastard.” The words are laced with malevolent spite, his smiling lips pressed tight as if to keep from singing.

Nova puts her hands on her hips, puckering in a mock pout. “Oh, you doubt me?”

“Nah, but I want to hear it from her,” the Stahl says smugly.

Crossing her eyes and holding one hand high in salute, Jinx intones, “I hereby confirm exactly whatever Nova told you.”

“Aw damn. I should have made it a much taller tale, then,” Nova sighs regretfully. “Worked in a fistfight with Jericho. Had you riding in on a deathclaw. Or maybe a yao guai.”

Grinning at Fawkes, Jinx quips, “Never too late to work in a super mutant.”

“And that’s what _she_ said.” Andy’s smug smile stretches; any further, and his mouth could act as a hinge. Nova just groans in response, muttering under her breath about bad jokes, old jokes, and _bad_ old jokes. Fawkes does not quite understand the humor but neither does Jinx, a flicker of incomprehension passing her features before she shrugs fatalistically.

“Hey, if you’re done kidding around, got any mirelurk meat? I like the cakes.” Turning to raise an eyebrow at Fawkes, she asks, “Any preference? I don’t know if you’ve had any of this before.”

“Whatever you feel is sufficient,” he says helplessly. He enjoyed both meals at Big Town, but lacks the shared common experience to even identify much of what he had. Another small way in which he is an outsider.

Her eyes crinkle sympathetically, and she pats the back of his hand. “Too much to ask for one of everything? Whatever we don’t eat tonight, we can take on the road tomorrow.”

With Jinx’s suggestion, the meal quickly becomes a family style affair. The other Stahl brother clears a table in the corner, allowing Gob and Nova to take a seat. The chair gives a warning groan as Fawkes attempts to shift his bulk into it, so he quickly discards it in favor of sitting on the floor. Though actually resting his plate on the table is rather awkward, it still allows him to remain included in the small party’s dynamics. It also finally allows him to be eye-to-eye with Jinx without either of them craning their heads.

Gamey, lean chunks of meat on wooden skewers, small cakes of tender white flesh that taste faintly of mud and sweetness, more molerat (he recognizes the gristly aftertaste) covered in some sort of savory brown gravy, and thick cuts of steak still pink in the middle all make a fine meal, especially with a large bowl of fluffy white mash on the side. The starchy dish makes an excellent means of sopping up some of the lingering sauces from the other items. After each bite, before he has had a chance to even chew, Jinx quickly asks how he likes it. He tries to answer truthfully—aware that the owners of the Brass Lantern are still in earshot—and cover his mouth while speaking, but Nova scolds Jinx, swatting her hand lightly.

“Let the man eat, hon.”

Eventually, after having a chance to judiciously sample everything, Fawkes feels comfortable declaring a particular fondness for the skewered meat.

“Squirrel on a stick, huh? Good choice, but not my favorite. I like mirelurk,” Jinx giggles, taking the last bite of what’s on her plate. A stray morsel of meat lingers on her cheek, bright as a star against the darkness of her skin. Unselfconsciously, she sticks her tongue out to the corner, licking it free.

Despite Jinx’s earlier declaration, there are actually no left-overs for the trip; while Jinx eats a surprising amount for her size and put a plate aside for Dogmeat, and Nova and Gob certainly aren’t holding themselves back on anyone’s account, Fawkes demolishes most of the meal himself. At twice everyone else’s size and a minimum of… he frowns briefly, considering the mathematics. Assuming weight to be proportional to volume, and volume cubed as lengths doubled, he is approximately eight times Jinx’s mass.

“What’s the matter, Fawkes? Indigestion?” the tiny woman asks, wiggling in her seat like an impatient child as she pulls a bag of caps from one pocket.

“Nothing of the sort. Though I hope you are not too full to remember your promise to play with the children.”

“I didn’t forget,” she says reassuringly, counting out the payment for their meal. Either she forgot Andy’s offer of a free meal or decided to pay anyways. “Hey, Gob, Nova—I promised Maggie and Harden I’d play tag with them while there’s still light out. Meet back at my place when the sun starts going down?”

“I think I’ll actually take a nap, if you don’t mind,” Nova yawns, pushing her seat back from the table and patting her belly comfortably. “I normally don’t eat so much, but this was wonderful.”

As Jinx fishes out the key, passing it to Nova and ordering Dog to follow her home, Gob offers, “I might watch, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I mind.” A smile follows that declaration, and she leans across the table to tap his nose. Or what’s left of it. “It’s more fun to _do_ than watch. Besides, they like to gang up on me!” she complains, crossing her arms and sticking her lower lip out so far that Fawkes fancies he could shelve books on it.

He feels his face creak about the edges, each closed-mouthed curl of his lip slowly becoming easier. “Perhaps I can finally rescue you then.”

She giggles, leaning against his shoulder and patting his forearm. “Children are much scarier than the Enclave, after all.” Her palm rests against his skin just long enough to be uncomfortable, but she withdraws as he tenses against the unnerving contact. Nova makes some sort of complicated shoulder motion at him, simply raising an eyebrow as she turns to leave.

Nova’s advice echoes through his head; if he just _tells_ Jinx he’s uncomfortable, she’ll stop. But thinking and doing are separate things, walled off from one another by all his uncertainty. Aware of being so alone in this world and afraid of alienating the one person who trusts him for _who_ he is, rather than shunning him for _what_ he is. And keenly conscious of just how ridiculous it must appear for someone of his size to be made uneasy by a woman whom he could lift in one hand… but how many have looked past the playful veneer?

This quietly troubles him, gnawing at his stomach while Jinx pays Andy and leads Gob out the door. Still, he follows—unease is better than being alone again. Harden and Maggie are playing outside Craterside Supply, hopping along a set of squares marked in chalk on the ground. The little girl beams brightly at them, clapping her hands in delight and flinging her arms around Jinx to bury her face in the lone wanderer’s shirt.

“You came back!”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Jinx pats her hand against Maggie’s back, curving her shoulders as if to shield her from the world. “I keep all my promises.”

“Yeah. She promised to get the radio working again. And went trekking all the way to Three Dog’s studio to fix the signal.” Gob’s gravel-tones are slow, thoughtful. And his arms are loosely clasped in front of him, like defenses slowly lowered.

“Hey, I had to find him to track my dad down anyway,” Jinx demurs, shrugging awkwardly with Maggie still in her arms.

Harden crosses his arms, squaring his jaw. Fawkes recognizes the echoes of his father’s mannerisms. “My dad said you delivered a letter for Lucy West. And had to deal with a bunch of blood-suckers too. That’s a ways to go for a promise.”

Jinx gives a skittering laugh, gently pushing Maggie away and shaking her head. “Maybe, but I wander around a lot. But no sense in wasting daylight,” she says, tapping her foot impatiently. “Still want to play tag? Gob and Fawkes are up for it too. I figured the more the merrier.”

Maggie immediately makes a face, ducking behind Jinx so that the young woman is squarely between her and the mutant. “I don’t think I’d want to be tagged by a super mutant.” The words aren’t even malicious, but just as innocently brutal as before. Fawkes immediately has visions of onlookers gazing in horror as he pursues a little girl with outstretched arms. Gob gives him a sympathetic look and a faint nod of recognition.

Jinx grimaces, sticking her tongue out. “I’ve played hide and seek with some of the mean ones before. Not a lot of fun. But you know what we could do instead?” she asks brightly, kicking her foot back.

Immediately, Gob takes that opening to innocently ask what. Fawkes breathes a sigh of gratitude, feeling a renewed kinship.

“Sardines!” she exclaims, eyes bright. “It’s kind of like hide and seek, but only one person goes to hide. Everyone else waits in a huddle, then separates to find the first person. Once you find them, you have to stick with them, and the last person to join the huddle becomes the first person to hide in the next game. Sound like fun?” As cheery and enthusiastic as she is, she could probably have asked “Want to go kill someone?” and both Maggie and Harden would have nodded just as eagerly.

A quick game of rock, paper, scissors between the two children—the two _actual_ children, he reminds himself, Jinx’s strange boundaries aside—determines that Harden’s going to hide first. Everyone covers their eyes in their hands while Jinx calls a ten-count, her voice soaring through the air.

“And that’s it! Let’s find Harden!” she hollers, immediately running to the hilly perimeter of Megaton’s walls. Maggie bolts in the other direction, making for the Brass Lantern.

Gob gives a lopsided shrug and crooked smile. “I suppose that’s our cue.” He exhales slowly, then hesitantly adds, “Though we don’t _have_ to split. I mean, a ghoul and a mutant wandering around a smoothskin town?”

“I agree.”

The tendon in Gob’s cheek turns taut and prominent as his smile stretches. “Good to know. It’s nice to have someone else they can stare at. Even if I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.” Almost haphazardly, he turns his steps along the perimeter of the town, passing an impromptu sitting area consisting of a moldering couch and tilted table.

“How long have you been in Megaton?” Fawkes asks, idly looking about in vain hopes of finding Harden. At their current pace, he and Gob will likely be the last ones to arrive on the scene. This fails to perturb him.

“Fifteen years. More or less.” The ghoul’s milky gaze is more distant than usual, pursing his lips and counting under his breath. “Yeah. Fifteen years. Hard to believe.”

“How did you—“ Here, Fawkes flounders, unsure of whether or not he will bring up bitter memories.

 But Gob gives a shrug of wan acceptance, and answers the unspoken question. “I was stupid. Thought I would leave Underworld, head so full of dreams it crowded out my brains. Got captured by slavers and sold to Moriarty.” He is quiet for just a heartbeat too long, then adds, “Moriarty might be an asshole, but he was still better than that.” His voice is dead and still, eyes averted in putative search for the others.

Jinx is not the only one with nightmares lingering beneath her words.

In an effort to change the subject, he turns to asking Gob about Underworld. Their conversation is eventually broken short as they pass by the water processing plant and catch the tail end of a soft giggle. Gob shrugs, absently running his thumb over the edge of his new bandanna before reaching for the door. It swings open, revealing the missing trio.

Jinx covers her mouth, but the curve of her lips is still visible behind splayed fingers as she scolds, “Took you two long enough! Fawkes, you’re it!”

Belatedly, Fawkes realizes that he is behind Gob. By Jinx’s rules, that makes him the next one to hide. As he leaves, letting her shrill ten-count fade behind him, he  goes for the only other part of the settlement he knows: her home. He does not actually enter the structure, but lingers outside by the small table. He examines what’s on it, but does not attempt to sit in the chair, remembering how the Brass Lantern’s furniture creaked beneath his weight. An empty whiskey bottle, and an ash tray filled with grey grit and cigarette stubs. He didn’t think Jinx smoked.

“Hey, mutie. Any word if Nova’s sticking around?” comes a coarse voice and the reek of cigarettes. The neighbor. Of course. He turns to see Jericho leaning against the next house over, pulling out a lighter and grunting as he ignites a fresh smoke.

“I believe that depends on her negotiations with Moriarty,” Fawkes says carefully, crossing his arms and straightening. Jericho seems like a man to exploit weakness, and while Jinx may call their relationship one of ‘friendly hostility,’ Fawkes suspects his definition may differ from Jinx’s.

“Fucking miser better keep her around. She’s better’n the booze,” the man mumbles about his cigarette, breathing in long and hard, then sighing as smoke curls out his nostrils.

Fawkes hesitates, unsure whether to continue the conversation or attempt to ignore the man. He elects to put in a good word for Nova. “If you inform Moriarty of this, he may be willing to offer her more favorable terms.”

“Fuck yeah. I might try that,” Jericho chuckles, though it turns to a phlegmy hack. “How the hell does a super mutant talk like a scientist? Thought you were all dumber’n rocks.”

“I am an aberration among my kind.” He does not mention the terminal, or the loneliness, the weight of the walls pressing inward—they feel like distant nightmares, belonging to someone else. A terrible dream born of darkness and solitude, impossible to fathom in this world of bright light and open air. He wonders if that capacity for _suffering_ is the true aberration, more than his cognitive faculties.

“Fuckin’ weird for _any_ kind.” The muttered deprecation seems more general than directed malice, which Fawkes finds strangely reassuring. Jericho may not like him, but he dislikes everyone equally—being a super mutant earns no extra ire. “So, you ever fuck her?”

Gears go to a grinding halt, and Fawkes blinks in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“Fuck her. You know, screw? Bang?” The man’s eyes narrow, and he removes his cigarette to make exaggerated quotes. “’Fornicate,’ if you need all the fancy words.”

“I believe you misunderstand our friendship.” The words feel strange on his tongue, and he schools his face to stillness. Whether the question is genuine curiosity or an attempt to bait him, it remains wildly inappropriate. He refuses to give Jericho the satisfaction of garnering a reaction, instead reciting the soothing mantra of a calm heart.

“For fuck’s sake. Another so-called ‘friendship.’ Maybe it works different for muties, but here’s some free advice for you.” The man gives a feral grin, lips stained dark from where his teeth bit the edge of the cigarette. “Men and women ain’t ever friends. They always want to bang. Or one wants to and the other doesn’t and shit. Then it ain’t friendship. It’s just waiting around until they get just drunk and horny enough, and then—“

“And then Jericho shuts up kindly. We have children coming along, after all.” Jinx lightly slaps Jericho’s hand, the one holding the cigarette. “And those will kill you one day, Jericho.”

“You should be so lucky. They might slow me down, but bullets go faster’n raiders anyway.” He takes another long drag, deliberately blowing smoke in her face.

Nose wrinkled, she steps back with a cough. “Fine. Go smog up your lungs. I was just trying to help.”

He shakes his head, giving a coarse chuckle. “Whatever. Mutie, do me a favor—when you screw her, bang her against the headboard a couple times. Might calm her down.” Flicking ash from his cigarette, he finally retreats into his own home.

Jinx just laughs, silver tones like a forgotten melody. “He was giving you the good old ‘men and women are never friends’ speech?”

“I take it he attempted to teach it to you as well?” Fawkes asks. Her nod only confirms what he knew.

“Yeah. Funny thing is, that’s not the first time I got the speech. My friend Butch had his own ideas on that,” she chuckles, ruffling her hair-crest as she leans against the railing. “Always said that sex would screw things up between guys and girls in friendship. Either getting it or wanting it.”

His brow furrows, and he looks down at Jinx as one pronoun sticks out. “Yet you were friends with this Butch?”

“Sure. His exception for me was because we were brothers.” She smiles widely, her eyes crinkled and glowing. “Emphasis on ‘brothers.’ He claimed I was more like a guy than a girl anyway.”

“You obviously never removed your shirt in front of him.” He means it to be humorous, trying to light-heartedly recall their earlier conversation, but she smirks, eyes dancing with wicked delight as her voice drops into a seductive purr.

“Oh, Fawkes, you _noticed_.” Suddenly she is too close again, batting her eyes and running her tongue over her lips, leaving them slick and inviting. He feels his cheeks burning and instinctively backpedals until he feels the railing block his retreat.

She drops the sultry persona as abruptly as she donned it, cringing with guilt. “Fawkes, that was a joke. I’m sorry.” Heart thundering in his chest, he remembers that night in Big Town, and her drawling about the sensual nature of books over dry data files. It had been easy enough to dismiss as a joke back then, surrounded by others who possessed better gauges for Jinx’s erratic moods, but on his own… how is it even possible to feel cornered by a woman half his height?

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, reaching up as if to stroke his hand reassuringly, but pausing and taking a deliberate step back. “I guess we have more boundaries than just clothes to talk about. I am—I am so sorry.” She is a broken doll now, face blank and shoulders slumped.

“I am sorry.” The apology comes immediately, a mediocre attempt to restore some semblance of normalcy. Quiet and broken does not suit her.

“Don’t be.” She smiles now, but her eyes are distant and shining like stars. “I overstepped.  Companions and partners, remember?”

“Friends.” The word still feels strange on his tongue, but her sigh of relief makes it taste sweeter. “Perhaps we should talk tonight about those boundaries.”

“Agreed.” She hugs her arms tightly about herself, twisting in place as if aching for contact, but she maintains her distance. He is relieved when Harden finally finds them, face splitting with joy as he immediately stands next to Jinx. Gob and Maggie quickly follow, and then the next round begins as Maggie runs off to hide.

They play through several more rounds, but Fawkes never finds himself so uncomfortably alone with Jinx again. Whether this is deliberate on her part or simply lucky coincidence he is unable to determine, but the game finally ends when the sheriff calls Harden over for supper at the Brass Lantern and Maggie decides that’s time to go home.

“Well, that was fun,” the wanderer breathes, puffing her lips outward as she rolls her shoulders back. Her gaze drifts up to the grey skies turning gold about the edges as the sun drifts to the horizon. She smiles, all warmth and radiance from her very core, and snaps her fingers, seized by a sudden idea.

“Hey! Fawkes, c’mon, c’mon!” she urges, immediately running towards her Megaton home. Fawkes chases after her, fleetingly feeling as if this is another game of tag. She pauses by a pile of junk stacked against the house and starts climbing, balancing on a set of old tires and pulling herself onto the roof. Her legs flail before she works enough momentum to hook one foot on the edge and squirm her way up.

“Look, we were so busy walking yesterday I don’t think we got a chance to admire it, but this… you’ll really like this, Fawkes. Come on!” she says breathlessly, looking down at him. Her eyes are shining brightly as stars, and he feels compelled to follow. “Gob, you come too! I bet you haven’t seen one of these in a while!”

Gob struggles with his balance against the wall until Fawkes laces his fingers together, offering an impromptu step that the ghoul gratefully accepts. Fawkes places one foot on a crate, then takes his next step onto a tower of metal boxes, then it is just a matter of grabbing the roof and pulling himself up on the flat roof with Gob and Jinx. She is spinning with wild abandon, arms wrapped around herself in the fiercest of embraces. Her smile is warmer than a thousand suns.

“Look.” He follows her finger, staring westward as the sun dips low past the walls. The skies are painted red and orange, subtle fires fading into one another before dying in the distance. “Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s even better outside the walls, when the sun kisses the earth, but it’s still—”

Gob beats her to finishing it. “Beautiful,” he says, voice touched with wonder around cracked lips and flaking skin. “It’s beautiful.”

“It gets even better. We are watching the sun die, but the stars have yet to be born.” Her tones are hushed, almost reverential. “I had read about this in Vault 101, but never seen it until I got out. I almost cried. We live in a world so full of wonder that the wonder is lost sometimes, or we forget to see it, or others hide us away from it and tell us there is nothing more to see…” Jinx sighs, giving herself one last squeeze. Then she steps between them, looping one arm around Gob’s waist. Fawkes senses rather than feels her raise her other arm as if to take his hand, but she pulls back. Swallowing, thinking about the various ways people show loneliness, he hesitantly touches his hand to the small of her back. Her hand gently rests against his arm. He tries not to shy away, hammering heart slowly soothed by the warmth of her presence.

Slowly the sun slips away, the last pink fingers of sunset dropping into the horizon. Just as slowly, inky blue darkness washes across the sky, scattered through with distant points of burning light. They gleam like pinpricks in the dark veil of the night, as if letting through the glow from some other celestial world.

“My father said they used to tell stories about the stars,” she whispers, finally breaking her uncharacteristic silence. Her face tilts up, the faint starlight gleaming off her features and catching her eyes. “The ancients used to see pictures in the stars. Constellations, they called them.”

“Orion the hunter. Leo and Cancer and all the animals of the Zodiac.” The names come easily to Fawkes’ lips, names he knows without recognizing the matching images.  “The Dippers, big and small.”

“I don’t think any of them look like that,” Gob says mournfully.

Jinx bites her lip, releasing Fawkes’ arm to point to the north and tracing her finger along tentative paths between the stars. “Then if we don’t know the constellations, we’ll make our own,” she says decisively. “See how those two connect? That looks like a radscorpion’s claw. So if you connect to there, and then that’s the body, and the tail… we have a radscorpion.”

“Show me again.”

So she takes his hand, cupping her hand over his and drawing invisible lines between the stars. Fawkes gazes skyward, trying to picture the heavenly constellations and the sheer imagination it must have taken to see shapes in the darkness. The ingenuity of mankind, to see the dizzying, beautiful expanse of the sky and decide that it is not enough, but then to trace shapes across the unimaginable void between the stars…

“I have read that the stars are distant suns, like our own. Burning off in the depths of space, so far away that even the light itself takes years to reach us. By the time a star dies, it would take at least that long for us to even notice its passing,” he rumbles, sitting down on metal roof. What little heat it absorbed during the day has rapidly faded with the night chill, and at least while sitting he does not get that dizzying sense of there being nothing beneath him but thin air.

“We could be watching dead stars?” Gob asks, troubled.

“Maybe. But for tonight—“ Jinx’s voice catches, and she releases a wild skirl of laughter that dances through the night like a host of fireflies. “For tonight, the stars burn for us.”


	10. Never

Jinx twirls some more, head tilted skyward and laughter spilling through the night. “Looks like a kaleidoscope from here,” she giggles, feet stumbling as she dizzily slows down. Alarmed, Fawkes watches her steps drift towards the edge of the roof and tugs her back to the relative safety of the center.

She just laughs some more, star-drunk. “I’ve jumped off roofs before, Fawkes. I’d survive.”

“You are giving me every reason to question your sanity,” he rumbles, her indifference prickling under his skin.

“Join the queue,” she says flippantly. “I’m going to go check on Nova, see if she woke up from her nap yet. Maybe keep her from drinking everything in the house,” she adds, grinning wickedly.

“Only if it’s wine.” Gob sits at the edge of the roof, shoulders tight as he stares downward at the darkness.

“Afraid of heights?” Jinx asks sympathetically, swinging her feet over the edge and dangling her lower body.

“Not heights. Depths.”

Her feet hit the crates, knees bending to absorb the impact. She turns in place, picking her next step down. “An important distinction,” she agrees. “Come on. I’ll catch you!”

Fawkes looks over the edge of the roof, his stomach queasy with grilled squirrel, gravy, and the seeming abyss of the drop. “Depths, not heights,” he mutters. “I like that one.” It’s easier if he closes his eyes, dropping down and grunting with relief as he feels ground thud underfoot once more. Even knowing that the metal walkways of Megaton are over yawning space, at least it’s better than being on the roof.

As it turns out, Gob needs neither Fawkes nor Jinx to catch him, instead making a graceless scramble down the pile of junk. Jinx bursts into ecstatic cheers when he reaches the bottom, clapping her hands fit to make the ghoul blush.

“Not so bad, huh? And wasn’t the view worth it?” she bubbles, hopping from one foot to the other and pumping her fists in the air.

The ghoul nods, gaze drifting upwards with lingering wonder. “I have never seen the stars like that before.”

“There’s a planetarium, in one of the old DC Museums—it’s pretty fantastic. Imagine, being able to summon the stars with just a flick of a switch…” Her voice trails off with a sigh, and she briskly knocks at the door. A howl answers her, then Nova calling, “Unlocked!”

Once inside, Fawkes immediately checks the ceiling. The atrocious lamp is gone, thankfully. Nova has also pulled out several bottles filled with rose and amber liquids, along with a few bottles of Nuka-Cola. A mismatched set of shot glasses and cups are set aside, but it looks as if Nova has not started drinking yet.

“Had a lovely nap, then thought why not have a toast?” Nova drawls, her voice sweet smoke and heat. She gestures to the liquor display with a disbelieving shake of her head before touching Jinx’s cheek. “You have enough to open your own bar.”

“Just until Doc Hoff comes in.” Jinx grins fiercely, but reaches for a whiskey bottle. “I don’t like selling to Moriarty, and the Stahls can’t take everything I find.” She pours a finger’s worth into a glass, then fills the rest with cola. The dark fizz quickly masks the tawny liquor.

With a faint ‘tsk,’ Nova pours in another generous dollop of whiskey. “We’re playing drinking games tonight, hon. Part of that means _drinking_.”

“I thought we were toasting first?”

“Good point,” Nova concedes. A dark bottle of beer goes to Gob, the ghoul popping the top with practiced ease, but she hesitates at Fawkes. “What do you drink?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, sitting at the edge of the bed. _His_ bed. The shape is still objectionable, but at least it’s large. Fairly comfortable too. He would like to trade the obnoxious red coverlet for something more muted, but this will suffice. Dogmeat sits next to him, curled into a tight ball.

“Big as you are, you probably won’t feel anything unless we get you the hard stuff. Whiskey?” He just nods, accepting her decision as she pours a line of shots for him.

“A toast! To friends, to freedom, and to drinking!” Nova finishes her toast by loudly clinking her glass of rose wine against Jinx’s glass and Gob’s bottle, then reaches over to tap it to Fawkes’ shot. He feels a wet splash of liquor spilling over the side, but downs the rest. The liquid burns going down, a fiery tingle spreading to his gut and limbs, but the rawness soon fades, leaving only pleasant warmth. The taste… he tilts the glass again, licking the small amount that lingers at the bottom. The taste is not something he particularly cares for, but he can see why others would appreciate its effects.

Jinx catches his measuring look, and chuckles. “Yeah. That’s why I mix mine with cola. I’m a baby like that.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Not like there’s a lot of other mixed drinks I can make anyway,” Gob grumbles. “I’ve seen those prewar cocktail books, and most of them are just about impossible to make with the crap we’ve got around.” He takes another swig of his beer, sitting heavily in a chair and looking a world apart from the beaten-down ghoul behind the bar.

“Other ways to make drinking fun.” Nova’s cheeks are flushed, but it’s more likely joy than alcohol.

“Drinking is _always_ fun, according to some,” Jinx points out, tapping her feet against the ground and idly swishing a finger through her drink.

“Yes, but games make you feel like there’s a _point_.” Nova takes another dainty sip of her wine, pinky turned up in exaggerated delicacy. “Ever played ‘Never Have I Ever’?”

“Never have I played Never Have I Ever,” Jinx intones, ducking to the side to avoid Nova’s annoyed finger-flick.

“Well, aren’t _you_ just a smartass tonight. Rules are simple: Say what you’ve never done, and if someone else has done it, take a drink. Winner is whoever stays sober the longest. Or takes the longest to finish their drink; I’ve never quite been clear on that myself.” Nova smiles brilliantly, all soft curves and warm charm. “I’ll start.” Clearing her throat daintily, she states, “Never have I ever been to Underworld.”

Gob and Jinx both take their sips, though Fawkes is lost as to the game’s entertainment.

Next, Gob holds up his beer. In a firm voice, he declares, “Never have I ever deactivated a bomb.” Jinx drinks to that, but not before laughing ‘not fair!’ and reaching over to swat him. He only snickers, beer coating the gravel sound.

“Fine. Never have I ever…” Her voice trails off, and she eyes Fawkes’ untouched line of shots. Then she grins, electricity crackling through her form. “Never have I ever gone solo to rescue someone from the Enclave.”

Nova lets out a low whistle of appreciation as Fawkes takes his first drink. “So that’s how you two joined up?”

“She managed to rescue herself,” Fawkes says quietly, gaze averted. He does still owe her so much, and every kindness only adds to the debt of his obligation. Belatedly, he realizes it is now his turn in the game. “Never have I ever jumped off a roof.” There; he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

Unsurprisingly, Jinx sips her whiskey-cola mixture. Surprisingly, Gob does as well, cueing a surprised laugh from Jinx. “Hey, when did _you_ jump off a roof?”

“Young, stupid, had skin back then. Did it to impress a girl,” the ghoul mumbles, but he grins foolishly, eyes misty with long-gone memories.

“Did it work?” Nova wants to know, leaning forward eagerly.

Gob just blushes, the remnants of his skin going pink and purple as Jinx hoots, “Details! Details!”

“She was gorgeous. Hair in long braids, skin like honey. All sweetness and light,” Gob begins, but stammers to a halt as Jinx asks, “Did you kiss?”

“Forget kiss; did you _fuck_?” That came from Nova, smug and grinning ear-to-ear. That completely undoes Gob, the ghoul hiding his face in his palm and refusing to stir from beyond its limited protection. Nova chuckles. “Fine, be that way. Never have I ever _kissed_ a girl. That wasn’t paying for it,” the prostitute quickly amends, bringing color to Fawkes’ cheeks as he recalls that yes, Nova’s profession makes her (un)fair game for most of the filthier ‘I Never’ statements.

Both Jinx and Gob take their drinks, though the ghoul’s eyes widen at Jinx’s casual swig. “You prefer dames?”

“No,” Jinx states firmly, wiping her mouth against the back of her hand. “I _like_ dames. But I don’t _prefer_. I like who I like.”

“So who was the lucky girl?” Nova asks, tilting her glass to swirl the wine.

Jinx’s smile is small and sad, eyes shuttering closed. “My first crush. Didn’t work out, but at least we stayed friends. She helped me escape the vault when everything went crazy.” Fawkes remembers her tale of that frantic escape, and the pistol… monsters in the labyrinth. Will she ever be truly free? Her hands flutter like broken wings as she gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “But that’s my kiss story.”

Nova raises an eyebrow, looking at Fawkes’ line of shots. “No kisses for you, big guy?”

“I have no memories from before my isolation.”

Nova just laughs at the overly prim statement, shaking her head in disbelief. “Shame about that. Maybe you have, but if you don’t remember… hm. It’ll be a while before you finish those shots then.”

“Never have I ever gone swimming,” Gob declares. Jinx and Nova take their sips, though Nova raises her eyebrow at Fawkes again.

“Just how long have you been out in the big wide world?”

“Two days,” he admits. Nova shakes her head in disbelief.

Now it’s Jinx’s turn again. Grinning, she teases, “No worries. I’ll teach you how to swim.” Then she switches to an oratory tone. “Never have I ever seen the rain.”

Gob and Nova take their drinks, Nova still shaking her head. “You’ve only been out for a few months too… well, give it a bit more time and the rains will come.”

“Never have I ever…” Fawkes stares upwards, looking at the lamp’s conspicuous absence. “Never have I ever seen a lamp like _that_ before today.”

Jinx takes a sip, blushing so that her cheeks match her hair. “Sorry again about that. Moira just thought when I said I needed a _really_ big bed that I needed a whole ‘lovers theme’ going on. But I don’t think that lamp had much to do with ‘love.’” She mimes thrusting one finger through the closed circle of her thumb and forefinger, the unexpected vulgarity making Fawkes choke.

“And you know so much about love, little girl?” Nova’s affectionate, playful even, but Jinx’s response is dead serious.

 “You don’t have to be in love to know what you like.” She gives an enigmatic half-shrug, tapping her drink to form ripples.

“Fair enough,” the prostitute concedes. She takes a sip of her wine to wet her throat, regardless of it being her turn in the game. “Never have I ever danced naked in the moonlight.” She looks about the table curiously, wondering who will be snared by that one.

Unsurprisingly, only Jinx takes a drink. Gob raises what’s left of an eyebrow. “When was that?”

“Eh. A while ago.” Jinx shrugs dismissively, apparently failing to find it odd or unusual.

Nova quirks her eyebrow upward. “For someone special?”

“Nah. I just felt like it.” Jinx rolls her shoulders back, giving a sigh of relief as a joint pops. “I just… I like dancing. And I like being naked. And I like the stars. So is that so strange?” She blinks, biting her lip as if just realizing how cleanly sheared her inhibitions are.

“It is unusual,” Nova allows. “But no stranger than many other things.”

Jinx snorts, crossing her ankles. “I’m not _that_ weird,” she mutters. “I just _do_ the things people think about. I spent nineteen years trying to run around with my wings clipped, and I’m just… I’m sick of it.” She abruptly kicks her legs out, rising like five feet of fury as the words spew out. Alcohol may be the trigger, but this has been brewing far longer than just this silly little drinking game. “I don’t like caring about what other people think. I _do_ what I have to do, but all the social bits—that’s another game. As long as I kill raiders and slavers, it shouldn’t matter a damn whether I dance naked on the rooftop. Or kiss girls. Or… anything.”

She takes a long swig of her drink, throat pulsing as she swallows the sweet beverage. The room is silent as she does so, finally setting her glass down.

“Story-time’s over,” she says in clipped tones, slamming herself back in her seat. “Gob, your turn.”

“Um.” He coughs, rapidly shifting gears. “Never have I ever… dyed my hair. Even when I had hair,” he adds feebly, running his fingers through the scattered strands still clinging to his scalp.

Jinx and Nova both take their drinks, though Fawkes just rubs his bald pate.

“I think at this rate, I will remain sober long after you are all inebriated.” He says the words slowly, eyeing the line of drinks still in front of him.

“Fine. Let’s see if this gets you going—never have I ever had to _duck_ to enter a doorway,” Jinx says devilishly, passing her hand over her head with a whooshing sound.

Fawkes takes his shot and Nova laughs.

“Never have I ever walked all around Megaton with my shirt wide open,” the prostitute adds breezily, winking as Fawkes coughs before taking his shot.

Jinx giggles, her solemn mood vanished like a mirage. “Yeah, we’re a regular pair of nudists.” She leans to the side, drumming her fingers against the edge of the table.

Swallowing, Gob attempts to continue the string of drinks. “Never have I ever…” His gaze flicks to Fawkes, and he gives a lipless smile. “Never have I used a Gatling laser.”

Predictably, only Fawkes and Jinx take their drinks. She hiccups, tapping her chest with one hand, but her words are still clearly enunciated as she announces, “Never have I ever run down a hallway full of lethal levels of radiation.” Fawkes does not drink, so she raises her glass at him, cola sloshing about the edges. “Oh come on. You did,” she says peevishly.

“Lethal is relative. It was not lethal to me; hence, I survived.”  It might be a pedantic distinction, but he is gratified by her immediate booing, her tongue sticking out as she gives an emphatic thumbs-down.

“Not fair! Drink! Drink! Drink!” she starts chanting, Nova adding her voice and even Gob clapping along as he shakes his head. Fawkes finally obliges by taking another shot, the whiskey filling him with liquid heat. He starts to feel a pleasant haze, thoughts blurring together as the alcohol finally starts kicking in.

“Very well. But never have I ever danced naked on those stairs,” he adds, pointing to the guilty structure. Jinx cackles as she takes her drink, and Nova shakes her head in amusement.

“Starting to wonder where you _haven’t_ been sky-clad, hon.”

“Technically, it’s not sky-clad in here because there is no sky,” Jinx points out, finger extended upward. “But only in the house and on the roof. Not like I’ve ever gone ‘hey, I want to wander around this abandoned metro _naked_ and see if a feral ghoul pops out!’”

“Might not be all that pops out.” Gob claps his hand over his mouth as soon as that blurts out, but Nova and Jinx are both carried away in gales of laughter, Jinx pounding her fist against her thigh as she gasps for air.

“Gob, you’re learning to sass! Fantastic!”

“Never have I ever slept with Sheriff Simms,” Nova says, so quietly that it takes a few moments before anyone even realizes she said anything. No one else takes a drink.

“You sweet on him?” Jinx is tapping her lower lip, eyes distant and scheming.

“A little, but I’m a big girl. _If_ he doesn’t mind me being a hooker… well, we’ll see.” Nova’s smile is soft and enigmatic. “Gob, back to you.”

“Never have I ever slept with two people at once,” the ghoul creaks, then almost drops his beer as both Nova and Jinx take their drinks. “Jinx! You?”

“You said _sleep_ , not sex,” she points out, smirking. “Plenty of sleepovers. Fawkes, you can drink for this one too; there were definitely more than two people in the room at Big Town.”

“You know what I meant.” His frown fails to have any sting, and his chuckle comes out in a jagged burst as Jinx pats the back of his hand. Neither interrogate Nova on her use of the word ‘sleep,’ the woman just rolling her eyes at Jinx’s word-play.

“Fine. Never have I ever had sex. With anyone other than myself,” she adds, crinkling her eyebrows as if deep in thought. Gob and Nova take their drinks, but Nova groans.

“Seriously, if we’re just sticking with the vulgarities, I’m going to be finishing that entire bottle of wine,” Nova complains, raising the bottle in demonstration.

Gob frowns, looking at Jinx. “How old are you again?”

“Nineteen and change.” The so-called Lone Wanderer smiles tightly. “I just never met anyone I was into. At least, not into _and_ in a relationship with,” she amends. “Never dated in the vault, and Wasteland romance isn’t exactly compatible with running around the ends of the earth. I mean, only seeing my sweetheart once a week at most…” Her voice trails off, and she gives a low sigh.

“There are people who wouldn’t mind that,” Gob says softly. Fawkes shifts uncomfortably, wondering if she recognizes the longing in his voice. Even if his ribs are intact, his heart is on display.

The tight line of her smile softens, twisting into something more sad and wistful. “But _I_ would. And being half the relationship… well, that would put a damper on things.”

 Draining the rest of her glass, Nova complains, “We are all playing this game wrong. It’s supposed to be silly and dirty, not emotional and feely. We’re supposed to be _laughing_ about all this, not crying in our cups.”

“But happy-drunk Jinx wouldn’t wake up early enough for a morning trek to Underworld,” Jinx points out, clinking her glass against Nova’s now-empty one.

“Fine. Just one more then, but you have to make it count, Fawkes.” Nova may be joking, but there is steel under her tone, and Fawkes flounders under the unexpected pressure.

“I have never done _most_ of these things, or even played the game before. How am I to single-handedly turn this tide?” he objects.

Jinx smirks, pointing to the line of whiskey in front of him. “Body shots. You _definitely_ haven’t done those before. And from what I’ve heard, they’re a perfect ice-breaker.” Nova’s loud groan spurs Fawkes to his next declaration.

“Very well then. Never have I ever done a body shot.”

“ _Finally_!” Nova exclaims, pouring herself another glass of wine so she can take her obligatory drink. Gob finishes his beer as well, muttering about how this is also something he had only done back when he had skin. Despite Jinx being the one to suggest it, her drink remains untouched, something which Nova gleefully observes.

“Okay, since Jinx is so desperate to get back on the road tomorrow, game ends here! But at least we can cross a couple ‘I never’ items off first. Jinx, do you have any ant nectar?” the woman orders, plucking the last two unfinished shot glasses from the floor by Fawkes. He watches in confusion as she places them on the table by her, pulling her shirt’s neckline down to expose more cleavage. Squeezing her breasts together, she wedges one of the shot glasses in the impromptu shelf. Gob blushes, ducking his head but not quite looking away, apparently aware of what’s coming next.

When Jinx returns with a small plastic jar filled with a yellow-gold substance, Nova dips a finger in and smears a generous portion of nectar along her neckline.

“Body shot. Game is to take that shot then lick off the nectar. Whiskey harsh and nectar sweet—a grown-up step from your whiskey and cola, hon. Try to get the shot without using your hands.” Fawkes flushes, dropping his gaze to the floor. He can hear a loud sucking sound and high-pitched giggles, a few distinctly wet slurps, and then Nova murmuring, “Don’t forget the nectar…” followed by more giggles and a loud licking sound. When he finally dares to look up, Jinx’s chin is sticky and gleaming, and Nova has an empty shot glass dangling in one hand as she laughs.

Cheeks red and eyes bright, Jinx wipes at the sloppy mess on her face with one sleeve. “Okay. That’s one ‘never’ crossed off.” Her voice is somewhat raspy, the whiskey burn not completely subdued by the nectar.

“You too, big guy?” Nova asks, the other shot dangling between her fingers.

Jinx laughs, ruffling her mop of hair with sticky fingers. “It’s just a game. But you don’t _have_ to play.”

Anyone else might miss that pleading tone, but the memory of him backing against the railing is too strong to refuse. So he nods, reminding himself that this is just a game. Within the boundaries of this silly drinking game, contact is not unexpected. It’s only the teasing, overly casual nature of it _outside_ that bothers him.

Or so he tells himself.

Nova takes his tentative nod in full stride. “Fine. Your turn to give the shot, Jinx.”

The wanderer crinkles her nose, shaking her head emphatically. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have no tits.”

“Small does not mean none,” the other woman says chidingly. “But there are other ways to do it. Lie down and pull your shirt up.”

Jinx stands from her seat, steps weaving uncertainly as she plops down next to Fawkes. Dogmeat stirs, but does not move as she leans back into the red fabric. She pulls up her shirt to expose a thin strip of bare flesh, taut lines of hips and stomach with only the scantest of curves to soften their angles. There is little that’s childish about her now, cheeks flush with giddiness and alcohol as Nova plunks the glass into the dip of her navel, then smears a line of nectar across a puckered scar that mars the burnt sugar hue of her belly.

Fawkes does not need Nova to recite the rules, instead leaning in and fitting his lips over the walls of the shot glass. Using his tongue to tilt it aside, the liquor comes pouring out into his cheek and he swallows quickly. A stray splash hits against the nectar, creating a rippled line that glistens in the light. Swiftly, before he loses his nerve to finish this ridiculous game, he presses his tongue flat against the trail of whiskey and nectar, pulling up in one broad stroke to gather the rest. She squirms under his mouth, belly quivering as she gives a surprised gasp.

“That tickles!”

Her startled squeak brings him back to himself and he straightens up, cheeks hot with more than just liquor. “I apologize. But that is one more ‘I never’ taken care of for both of us.”

“I’ll say,” Nova murmurs. There is something wicked and foreign in her gaze, but she refrains from voicing it. “Clean up, then bright and early tomorrow, I take it?”

“For us, leaving at eight at the latest. You’re welcome to sleep in if you want; I can leave the key with you until I come back,” Jinx offers. “And Nova, Gob, you can take the beds upstairs.”

Nova raises her eyebrow. “So where are you sleeping?”

“I have a bedroll.”

The flippant response just makes Nova’s eyebrow rise farther. Any higher and Fawkes suspects it will detach from her face. “So you are giving everyone else the beds for tonight?”

“You’re guests,” the younger woman says defensively, jaw set with a mulish expression.

Coughing, Fawkes pets Dogmeat with one hand. After that ridiculous display with the whiskey and the nectar—and having gained a vague sense of comfort from learning that her black widow tendencies are a mere façade—he feels less unease in offering, “But I am not a guest. I am your companion.”

“And you get to sleep in a bed too.” Her arms are crossed in front of her now, scowling like a gargoyle.

“There is ample space for both of us.” Considering her physical intimacy, he does not think she will object. However, with her lack of a clothing taboo… he hastily adds, “But please keep your clothes on.”

That startles a laugh from her, and Nova too, the woman rolling her eyes and chuckling, “This must be the first time I’ve seen a man try to talk a woman _into_ her clothes.”

“Sure, I can stay dressed. And thank you.” Jinx’s smile is small, but her eyes more than make up for it.

Cleaning up is a simple affair, mostly meaning just setting it aside for Wadsworth to get around to. Nova and Gob go up to their separate rooms.  Jinx pulls off her boots, setting them aside neatly with her grimy socks spread flat beside them. She hesitates when unfastening her vest, looking askance. “Is this okay? I am keeping the undershirt, but just don’t like sleeping in anything too bulky.”

Remembering her comment about skivvies, he nods. “Underwear is acceptable.” The heavy chains attached to her thick leggings would only dig into the mattress anyway.

For the first time since he has met her, she turns away before disrobing. The worn fabric of her tank top provides sufficient coverage for him to feel comfortable and her bottoms look to be modified boxer shorts, allowing him a small wave of relief. Then even that vanishes from view as she tucks herself under the blanket, nestling herself against Dogmeat. Fawkes moves himself under the blanket as well, the bed wide enough that he does not actually touch her even though he is aware of her warmth less than six inches away.

“Hey. Still want to talk about earlier?” she asks, voice soft and tentative.

He nods before remembering she cannot see it in the dark. “Yes. I would still like to apologize. I know there is no ill intent.” His voice carries far more than he would like, so he tries to keep it barely above a whisper, ghost-like and wafting from his lips.

“No. I have… bad boundaries. Most people do not call me on it because I’m small and friendly.” She sounds resigned, squeezing Dogmeat slightly and causing the dog to snuffle against the blankets. “I mean, let’s be honest. If I was big like you, or a man, all the touching I do—reaching for people’s hair, patting their cheeks, hugging them—it would be _really_ inappropriate. And it still is, if you aren’t comfortable with it.”

He pauses, trying to pick his words carefully. “I admire you greatly. I am still learning your ways, and am enjoying our travels so far. But I am still learning. And most of all, I am trying to learn what you expect of me.”

“I need someone to watch my back in combat, and to help me stay alive. Someone I can do the same for,” she replies, equally slow and hesitant. “I _want_ someone who can be a friend, and who can argue or disagree with me if they think I am making a poor decision.” He feels her toes twitching under the cover, a nervous tic as they rustle against the sheets.  “And I would _like_ someone I can touch or hug once in a while. I know it sounds very clingy, but I do cling. I’m not trying to, ah…” Here she coughs, nervous and uncertain as she gives a broken laugh. “I’m not trying to ravish you. I swear, if I want to, I’ll tell you. Earlier today was just a very bad joke.”

The most incredible thing is that he believes her. Blunt as she is, he has no problems envisioning her giving a cheerful smile and a straight-forward, “Hello, would you like to have sex?”

“I am still learning your boundaries. You intimidate me,” he admits. He forges on as she laughs disbelievingly. “You are competent, knowledgeable, and very aware of what you want. I am still struggling to develop those skills.”

“And I am still struggling to balance between what _I_ want to do and what _others_ want me to do.” She says this soft and wistful, eyes closed when he turns his head to look at her. “Sometimes I feel like jelly scraped across too much bread. But if it’s something that makes me happy… I’m not going to stop dancing naked in moonlight just because it shocks someone who can’t even see me.”

“Never stop dancing.”

He can see her smile, teeth gleaming in the shadows of the night. “Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Extended babbling notes at tumblr.](http://chocochipbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/87181256745/jinxed-chapter-10-never)


	11. Stalwart

He wakes up in a blind panic, thrashing against the sheets as sunlight slices ribbons through the darkness.

_Sun’s up, I don’t even have my shoes on, Moriarty’s going to kill me if I don’t set up the bar…_ he thinks, the tiny animal part of him that’s been locked up for so long gibbering in mindless fear as he swings his legs out of the bed, instinctively reaching for—

And then the memory hits him like brick, smashing through his skull and releasing yesterday’s memories in a flood. He’s free, free of Moriarty and the saloon and living in this strange town full of smoothskins that never really felt like home despite having spent fifteen years here. Free of being yelled at, cussed at, kicked and ducking from the expected harshness of strangers and living for those few precious moments where it’s just him and Nova by the bar and the radio plays the news of Little Miss 101 and her adventures…

Gob cannot resist smiling at the thought, the familiar fantasy easy to slip back into. He’s free, and could follow her wherever she leads. Maybe learn to use that pistol she gave him, don leather combat armor and become her faithful ghoul manservant, sweep her away (and here his imagination become much more vague; rescuing her from something, or maybe boldly twirling her into his arms as the sun sets in the distance…) and they could wander as companions.

But it is only a moment before the cold weight of reality sets in. Fifteen years tending the bar have not improved his survival skills any from the starry-eyed ghoul that set forth from Underworld only to get captured by slavers in less than a week. He swallows, throat abruptly dry. It takes something special to survive the Wastelands, much less thrive, and he doubts he has it now. If he ever did to begin with.

Much less rescuing Jinx. He thinks back to last night’s game as he pulls on his shirt, the worn material much finer than anything he’s had a chance to wear while ‘working’ for Moriarty. How Fawkes had tried to rescue her from Enclave forces, only to find that she had already escaped on her own. He has never seen an Enclave soldier, of course, but he’s heard Jinx’s stories and Three Dog’s broadcasts. But the one thing they never mentioned was just what had happened with Charon.

_‘Faithful ghoul manservant_.’ _He hadn’t looked so faithful that day at the bar_ …

He swallows, throat dry as he finishes the last button before slipping into his pants. Jinx had laughed so brightly, swinging her arm about him and squeezing close, playfully teasing and flirting like always, like she had no idea what it was like to feel so painfully alone that every small touch fed an unnamed hunger that wasn’t even sexual, exactly, but just so desperate for belonging and contact—

—or maybe that’s why she holds so tight, afraid to let go of those around her.

He had asked about Charon, but she only smiled, eyes shining bright, too bright, like a star about to die and maybe it’ll be years before anyone notices. _“He’s safe. That’s all that matters,” she had said, throwing her head back and laughing like it was just a big game, her laughter flying away like birds struggling against the sky…_

But he remembers Charon stopping by the bar only a few days earlier. The tall ghoul was wearing that suit of power armor, making him even larger and more intimidating. Charon had only stayed a few moments, just long enough to inform Gob that Dogmeat was being left in Megaton and that Charon was going to Underworld.

_“Per my former mistress’ detestation, I am to return to Underworld and offer my contract to Carol. In anticipation of my future employer’s request, I ask you this: How are you?_ ”

The words had been delivered precisely, each syllable meticulously measured as if Charon had been hoarding his words for just this moment. This was a veritable _wealth_ of chatter for the taciturn man, and Gob had only been able to choke out a forced ‘okay’ under the weight of the other ghoul’s filmy gaze.  Charon is a fighting man, and has been fighting for far longer than any other that Gob has known—and suspects will ever know. He had never been friends with the bodyguard even when they were both in Underworld and mostly recalls him as a silent, glowering presence. Jinx had always treated him just like anyone else though, laughing and teasing and impervious to his lack of response.

_He had licked his lips, feeling his skin crack under the strain of movement. “What happened to Jinx?”_

_Charon’s face was impassive, wooden as ever as he responded. “She has gone where I cannot follow.”_

_“Is she dead?” Gob asked, feeling pathetically weak, his shoulders shaking as he unwillingly recalled all the nightmares that can happen in the Wasteland. Because it’s not just him who lights up when she’s present, but the fact that she’s the closest thing to a hero that the Capital Wasteland has ever seen, and if she’s gone, there are so many who will mourn, and more who will never have the chance to mourn because they hadn’t the chance to meet her…_

_“She has gone where I **cannot** follow.” The ghoul leaned in, hands on the bar as he glared full into Gob’s eyes. “Without a master, I cannot stay long. But she has gone where I **cannot** follow. But once my contract is in other hands, things will change. Perhaps many things.” There had been a strange weight to those words, hints of a snarl buried beneath the precise dictation. Finally, Charon pushed himself upright, fitting his helmet back over his head and into place with a heavy clank of metal on metal. Through the distortions of the voice synth, he crackled, “Let it be.”_

And then… Gob remembers the door swinging shut behind Charon, and his own dazed stare at the wall following that strange pronouncement. He never understood Charon, or his contract, or any of that—and not for the first time, wonders how much of Charon’s nature is a result of who he is, or how much of it is because of what he has become.

He looks around the room, for the first time taking in how sterile it feels. This had been Charon’s room; he remembers because Jinx’s room had been obviously hers, with a teddy bear lying on the floor and dog hair coating everything. In contrast, this room feels… empty. Blank. A few neatly stowed articles of clothing, a partially disassembled assault rifle laid on the desk with meticulous precision, but other than the weapon, this room could have been completely uninhabited.

Or inhabited only _by_ a weapon.

He swallows, the thought echoing uncomfortably. Charon is a fighting man, but he is more akin to a weapon than a man, Azrukhal’s guard dog and then Jinx’s… what, precisely? Employee? Bodyguard? Friend? Jinx had always claimed him as friend, but would he do the same?

He had not told Jinx about Charon’s visit, for fear of releasing the flood of tears that lurk beneath each false laugh and bright smile. He does not think he will tell her unless she asks, or some other opportunity presents itself. There would be no point in relaying that brief conversation.

Or so he tells himself. Does he owe her that truth, no matter how painful?

Even if the mechanical routine of getting dressed had not woken him, his own panicked thoughts would not allow him to sleep. He feels raw and empty, an unpleasant contrast to the sheer pleasure of dinner or drinking while chatting and laughing amongst friends. Even with that strange super mutant, or maybe especially with that strange mutant—the empathy of finally meeting someone even more out of place than a ghoul in a smoothskin town.

He pushes the door open slowly, and can hear Jinx’s voice, all rapid twitters even with her volume low. “Whatcha thinking, Fawkes?”

The super mutant’s response is slow and hesitant, and Gob uncertainly hovers in the doorway. “Your arsenal.” The big man sounds vaguely ashamed of that observation, and a faint up-tilt turns his next sentence into a question. “You have quite a collection.”

 “Yeah. I started with just a little pistol and a baseball bat—then found a combat knife. Took down a raider, got another pistol. Just started working my way up from there.” Jinx laughs softly, blithe and oblivious. Not for the first time, Gob wonders if she is truly innocent of all the unspoken implications and unanswered nightmares lurking below those words, or if she simply plays at being a sweet little fool, trying to use a simple bandage to cover a gaping wound. She’s _bright_ , he knows that, but charming as she is, she remains selectively blind to certain elements of social interaction. Not that he is always comfortable when talking with people, but at least _he_ is aware of the rules and barriers. Shyly, he creeps out of the room, moving to the edge of the railing so he can look down at the two.

Fawkes is sitting upright on that ridiculous bed, absently petting Dogmeat with one massive hand as Jinx stands next to them, working her way through a set of stretches. She is clad only in her underclothes, and Fawkes’ gaze remains firmly fixed on one of the lockers by the door. Jinx twists in place, lacing her hands together and pushing them away from her torso. Gob finds himself strangely mesmerized by the number of scars on her body, mementoes etched in her flesh. He had never realized quite how badly injured so many of her ‘adventures’ had left her.

“Each weapon got me another step closer to something better—either parts, or being able to sell it to get tools. I started hoarding them just because I never knew what sort of ammo I’d be able to scrounge or what I might use for other repairs.” Her eyes are pale, almost glowing from the yellow lights strung overhead. With a wistful tone, she adds, “Plus, there is something… reassuring. Safety. I know I won’t touch most of ‘em beyond cleaning or maintenance, but just knowing that I have them…”

“It is security,” Fawkes finishes for her, instinctively reaching for the charge pack for his Gatling laser. He strokes its boxy lines and metal body almost as gently as he pets Dogmeat with his other hand.

Her mouth splits in a wide, white smile. “Exactly. Because no matter what, here I stand. This house, this place, this time—it is mine and mine alone. Should raiders knock or Enclave shock, then I shall rain the righteous fury of a thousand bullets upon their heads.” The sing-song cadence of her words is like a child’s skip-song, slightly out of tune in some minor key. “This is my home. It’s a safe haven, and I’d—I’d do about anything to protect it.”

Gob’s chest swells, constricts, and leaves him crumpled, struggling for breath as he tries not to think of her as a child. She’s almost Nova’s age when Nova started working for Moriarty, older than some of the caravan guards who come through—but she looks so young, especially when she sings like that, and he sees the light fall across her form and the subtle shadows of her hair falling over one ear. Like she is only playing at being a hero, just as she plays at hide and seek or ‘sardines’ or telling stories about the stars.

He finally coughs, announcing his presence. “Good morning. Sorry if I overslept.” Fishing the red bandanna out of one pocket, he loosely ties it about one wrist as he moves down the stairs.

“No worries. We aren’t moving out until after breakfast anyway,” Jinx says, reaching for a suit of some thin black material and pulling it on as she speaks. Gob notes that Fawkes keeps his gaze averted until she is fully dressed. “I don’t want to wake Nova up just yet, but—“

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” a bleary voice calls, and Nova stumbles out of her room looking disheveled, as if she just slept in last night’s clothing. Probably did; Gob can’t imagine she took her normal sexy sleepwear from Moriarty’s. “Not used to getting up this early.”

“Sorry,” Jinx says sheepishly, holding her hands up to shield her pink cheeks. “You can stay here until you’re ready to face Moriarty. Or stay here until—well, whenever you want. I can leave the key.”

“Nice offer, but no. I’m a big girl and can do some things on my own, hon.” Nova’s smile is wan but genuine as she descends the steps, reaching out to tousle Jinx’s hair affectionately. “How about that breakfast? Then you three can go on your adventures and I can go talk with Simms a bit before haggling with Moriarty.”

Breakfast ends up being noodles and mutfruit. Then Jinx dons her power armor and even finds a set of leather armor that fits Gob, encouraging the ghoul to wear it as a modicum of protection. It is bulky and strange rather than reassuring, making him feel as if he is play-acting at being an adventurer. He shivers slightly, wondering just what would happen if he really were to ask to join Jinx…

_Nothing good_. And she already has all the aid she needs with Fawkes. It is strange to watch them circle about one another, all hesitancy and awkward pauses. It reminds him of seeing some of the men who would enter the saloon on occasion, purchasing drinks and never quite daring to meet Nova’s eyes, only glancing up when her face is turned, slowly edging themselves closer over the course of the night until they finally worked up the courage to pay her the caps and go upstairs.

The difference is that this time, both are playing that game. And he doesn’t _think_ it’s about sex—not really, but Nova might know better about that—but trying to establish whatever their boundaries are even as they commit to traveling together.

He watches her wrinkle her nose at Fawkes’ vault suit, reaching as if to stroke one tattered sleeve before pulling back. “That thing is absolutely _no_ protection. We’ll have to visit Moira when we come back. She gave me an armored vault suit before, and I bet she could rig something similar for you.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Fawkes rumbles, flexing his fingers and popping his knuckles to prominence as he slowly curls his hand into a fist. “Thick as my hide is, I would appreciate any additional aid.”

_And it’ll help you look less like one of the hostiles_ ,Gob thinks, but does not voice. Clothing, even the ragged and simple items that so many settlers or vagabonds make do with, establish a certain level of civilization—among the ghouls of Underworld, the state of your clothing would serve as a visual cue for how close to going feral you were. That was often the first sign of whenever the isolation or the years pressed too closely and a ghoul just stopped caring, letting their wardrobe fall into tattered rags and then those around them would try, gently, to talk and see if sanity has fled or if this was just a momentary aberration…

As if losing half one’s flesh and skin is any less an aberration. But at least with companionship, it could be bearable.

No ghoul would dance naked under the moonlight.

Jinx passes him a satchel containing food and water, but most of their other supplies end up going into the compartments of her power armor or onto Fawkes’ back, the large man hoisting it all without complaint. Not that it appears to take him much effort on his part. Fawkes seems too much of a gentleman to be deliberately flexing for either of the ladies present, but watching his chest and arms ripple makes Gob fleetingly wish he still had all his own skin and hair.

“Ready to head on out?” Jinx asks, her voice tinny through her helmet. Fawkes nods assent, and Gob follows suit.

They leave the Megaton house to Wadsworth’s attentive housecleaning efforts and Jinx locks the door behind them. Then it’s just a matter of waving goodbye to Nova, the prostitute giving Jinx a warm embrace, Fawkes a genial pat on the arm, and then a gentle hug for Gob, murmuring, “Take care, Gobbie,” in his ear. If he still had skin to blush, he would—but from her knowing smile, Nova understands. Gob can count the number of times Nova has hugged him on one hand and have fingers remaining. This is a final goodbye.

Then it is the beginning of a long march across the wastes, taking in the grey sunlight and the dust and grit _everywhere_ , the world looking so unchanged from when he first entered Megaton as Moriarty’s ‘indentured servant.’ Jinx moves with an easy, loose-limbed gait, her armor lending her a weight and gravity that she normally lacks. Fawkes moves just as easily for all that he has only been out of his vault for two days, as if he had been created for this world. In fact, _designed_ for this world, if the rumors about super mutants being some prewar super-soldier experiment are to be believed. For a moment, Gob tries to imagine seeing them as an outsider might. Fawkes would be the most obvious threat, but Jinx in her power armor could also pose a problem. If one didn’t know Fawkes’ intelligence, one might think taking the woman out first would leave him less able to plan, but knowing Fawkes and knowing the way they circle about each other like junkyard dogs…

In his heart, he still thinks Jinx would be the true danger. But then again, he has never seen Fawkes angry.

Thinking these things helps take his mind off the grueling pace of the trek and the way the air burns his lungs. He might still be physically strong, but his endurance hasn’t been improved at all by tending bar for fifteen years. And he forgot how dry the air was—ghouls might not perspire the way smoothskins do (something about the sweat glands from what he remembers Barrows saying), but they still retain heat and he feels his gut ache. Every shadow or unexpected gravel click makes him uneasy, only the weight of the armor keeping him from jumping out of what’s left of his skin. He knows it must be safe, and he _feels_ safe while with them, but he has had so many years to dream of that nightmare in the slavers’ caravan, with the sun burning overhead and the heavy collar about his neck as he was herded along. The history sometimes feels more real than the present.

“Hey Gob. You doing alright there?” Jinx asks, her concern obvious even through her helmet’s distortion.

He nods, instinctively wiping one hand across his forehead. Not that he’s sweating much, but the motion at least feels like he’s doing _something_.

“It’s no rush. I’d like to at least make it to the metro station before calling a break, but we can take a rest if you need it.”

“No.” Gob knows very well he does not _need_ a break, even if he wants one. Jinx and Fawkes are already doing a kindness by escorting him to Underworld, and he does not want to slow them further.

Fawkes twitches his brow at that, perhaps as if raising an eyebrow. Being hairless makes the gesture a bit more difficult to read. Gob wonders if this is how humans feel when dealing with ghouls.

The long walk is made marginally easier when Jinx flips the radio on, soft strains of _‘Let’s Go Sunning’_ coloring the landscape. Fawkes continues scanning the horizon for threats even as Jinx keeps an eye out for red blips on her Pip-Boy’s navigation, but nothing disturbs the tentative safety of their journey until they cross a prewar bridge erected over the river.

“Dammit. Three reds up ahead, and looks like raiders. I recognize the mutilated corpses,” Jinx mutters, immediately killing the radio and plunging them into silence. “No good way to sneak past. So… Fawkes, feel like making a suicidal frontal assault?”

“Ready and willing,” the mutant rumbles in response, the calm in his voice at odds with the way he casually aims his Gatling laser.

“Then Gob, you stay here. Dogmeat, guard!” she orders, then she races ahead. Gob swallows, immediately diving behind one of crumbling walls that serve as road dividers and wondering if he should question her sanity. Or perhaps her judgment. Would even the most chem-addled of raiders decide that attacking a figure in power armor accompanied by a super mutant would be a wise decision? And if they did…

From what she’s said, raider weapons tend to be of poor quality and ill-maintained, especially against her almost obsessively well-loved equipment, but it still takes a strange sort of courage to face bullets head-on.

Courage or insanity. He has always wondered a bit about Jinx’s sanity.

And Fawkes’ too, now that he watches the man charge. Jinx is quicksilver motion and twists, darting like a hummingbird. Fawkes has less grace but more force, each footfall landing like an elephant’s tread. He does not bother strafing, instead releasing a primal roar that echoes through Gob’s ears and bones, down to the very core of him where nightmares lurk. The raiders immediately fire at Fawkes, practically ignoring Jinx and—

_Oh shit. I’m still exposed_ , Gob thinks, brought to his senses as Dogmeat growls, butting his head against the ghoul. Moving crabwise to the side, he leans against the low stone wall. The gunfire still sounds close, far too close, and even recognizing the foolishness of staring at the fight, he peeks over the edge. Otherwise, it is far too easy for his mind to spin visions of approaching raiders, laughing with bloody knives and bloodier teeth.

Heart hammering in his throat, he watches Jinx and Fawkes dominate the battlefield. Fawkes shrugs bullets off like flies, dropping raiders with a sizzle of red energy and a guttural laugh. But easy as it is to watch Fawkes, Jinx is taking down her own targets. More than one raider dissolves to a puddle of green goo before the chem-addled attackers realize that the little girl in power armor is just as much of a threat.

_They’re fucking terrifying_.

For one brief moment, Gob feels hyperaware of everything about him. The scorching heat on his skin. The grit of the wall under his fingers, digging into dry flesh. The miserable chafing of his armor, the realization that despite having been given a weapon, he failed to fire a single shot…

And he’s not sure if the ‘they’ he’s thinking about are the raiders or a tiny laughing girl who holds too close and a soft-spoken super mutant who only seems to laugh during battle.

Some stalwart ghoul manservant he would be.

But watching them move together, another thought crosses Gob’s mind.

Fawkes is brave. Loyal. Courageous.

Stalwart.


	12. Love Letters

Fawkes examines the remnants of the raider camp with a studiously neutral expression. He originally lingering doubts as to whether the raiders deserved eradication—perhaps simply firing out of perceived self-defense at seeing two unknown and armed figures approach— vanish as he surveys the wreckage. The mutilated torsos littering the camp, dry blood staining the earth and chipped knives set aside like paintbrushes are ample proof as to what sort of ‘sport’ these ragged and disheveled humans had been pursuing.

Jinx goes ‘gack’ from beneath her helmet, turning to flash a rather tense thumbs-up to Gob. The ghoul looks as if he’s about to be sick.

“Hey, it’s a mess, I know, but I’m checking for anything useful. Might as well swipe the caps or anything useful, but can’t do much else for these people. No time for a burial, and the wasteland scavengers will take care of them better than we can,” she says gently. “You might want to wait down by the metro entrance.”

It’s only a matter of minutes before she turns out the raiders’ pockets for anything useful, salvaging a handful of caps and a bottle of Nuka-Cola. The weapons are shoddy beyond belief, but she still takes the firearms, muttering that at least the parts might be useful.

Descending into the cool bowels of the metro system, Fawkes smells lingering decay and rot along with the metal tang of stale air. Jinx turns on her Pip-Boy light, muttering about how there shouldn’t be too many raiders or feral ghouls to worry about this time.

The fact she mentions ‘this time’ perturbs him.

So while she keeps glancing at her Pip-Boy, trusting it to alert her to danger, he flicks his gaze to Dogmeat. The dog pants happily, tongue lolling out and breath rasping the air. They pause to take a brief lunch at the ticket-station, dining on cold beans. Jinx discards the empty tins in a trash can with as much dignity as possible considering the multiple empty cans already littering the floor.

They encounter no other living beings during their journey, barring a few radroaches that skitter out of sight once spotted. Dogmeat pursues them, snapping jaws making short work of them, but otherwise their party ignores the vermin. Jinx gives Dogmeat an off-handed pat, telling him what a good boy she is even as she checks her map. She points out minor ‘landmarks,’ sites of past victories and ambushes, including a section of broken pipes with gas hissing out of them.

“Careful with those. Energy weapons will ignite the gas, and the results are pretty explosive.” She pauses briefly, tapping one finger to her helmet over where her nose would be. “Sometimes that can be useful.”

The charred corpses flung about the floor lie in mute testimony to that statement. Fawkes realizes that the hard, flayed flesh under the burns is far too emaciated for them to have been entirely human. Their clothing, such as it was, consists of ragged tatters. He mulls that over, with only their echoing steps to interrupt his thoughts.

Finally, he asks, “What makes a ghoul ‘feral’?”

Jinx shrugs, metal plates clanking.

“That’s the million cap question,” Gob replies after a few moments, as if just realizing that Jinx isn’t the only one capable of answering. “Doctor Barrows is trying to find out, but…” His voice trails off and he gives a rasping sigh. “Most bigots don’t give a damn between ferals and sentients.”

Apologetically, Fawkes clarifies. “I mean, what is a ‘feral’ ghoul?”

Again, Gob waits a few beats before providing a tentative response. “They are ghouls who’ve lost their sentience. They just wander around attacking smoothskins. They leave other ghouls alone though.”

“Friendlier than raiders,” Jinx says flippantly, tapping a white-tagged logo on the wall as she passes by. Scrawled lettering below reads ‘To GNR Outpost’ with an arrow helpfully pointing the way.  “Raiders don’t even like other raiders, from what Jericho’s said.” She takes a glance at her Pip-Boy, shivering slightly.

“Something on the nav screen?” asks Fawkes.

“Nah. We’re good.” The plates of her shoulders heave as she tilts her head upward. “We’ll be good. I just hate navigating down here. A maze of little twisty passages, all alike. At least there aren’t any grues.”

Steps slowing, Fawkes blanches at the thought of a monster that would concern even Jinx. “What’s a grue?”

Fawkes grows even more confused as Jinx starts explaining the reference to an old text-based console game, but does not dare interrupt. At least this ‘grue’ is only a fictional danger.

Unlike the ‘Frankensteins.’

“—and I really liked it. Very clever, innovative, some absolutely horrific puzzles, and so many problems just couldn’t be solved by blindly hacking away,” Jinx finishes cheerily. “I mean, I enjoyed the more adventure-game elements of ‘Beyond Zork,’ but I think that was partly to make it more accessible to people frustrated by the problem-solving.“

Fawkes doesn’t have the heart to tell her he has long since lost the conversational thread.

“So… Gob, I know it’s going to add a little more time to the trip, but we’ll be pretty close to Galaxy News Radio. I want to talk with Three Dog, and I bet he would like to meet a fan.” The lights of her armor appear to glow a little brighter, though that could be simple a trick of her reflection glimmering off a subway car. Her voice is tentative, almost shy.

Gob smiles, dipping his head. “That would be real nice.”

“Wouldn’t he object to my presence?” Fawkes can’t stop uneasily thinking back to the public service announcement.

Jinx shakes her head hard enough that Fawkes is surprised she doesn’t get whiplash. “He’s very open-minded. If he can just meet you, I’m sure there won’t be any issues. And I’ll vouch for you if any of the Brotherhood get itchy.”

The thought fails to soothe him, though he remains silent in deference to Gob’s obvious pleasure. His disquiet isn’t worth disrupting Gob’s chance to meet an idol and extend the length of his ‘adventure.’

At length they reach a sheltered alcove that Jinx declares is a relatively secure spot to make camp. They divvy watch shifts by drawing straws with discarded ticket stubs, ending up with Fawkes taking first shift, Jinx at second, and Gob on third. When both the men object to Jinx getting the worst sleep schedule, she shrugs it off.

“Equals and partners. That means _equal_ ,” she argues. “I can take the middle shift.” When she mulishly refuses to swap watches, they are finally forced to acquiesce.

Fawkes chews on more jerky as he stands his watch, using shallow sips of water to rinse the lingering grease from his tongue. While his eyes are adjusted to the low light, he quickly realizes his ears will be a better aid in the dank underground. Still straining to catch any unguarded sounds, he steals a glance back to his companions.

Gob is curled inward with his back to the wall, though Fawkes doubts he is truly asleep yet. It is more difficult to tell with Jinx, as she is leaning back while still wearing her full suit of armor. Much as she claims to hate the thing, she can’t risk vulnerability. Dogmeat is curled next to her, already drifting in easy slumber. Fawkes suspects the dog will rouse more rapidly than any of them should danger arise.

In the dark silence, he is tempted to count prime numbers. But unlike his prison in Vault 87… this feels easy. There is the soft breathing of his companions to remind him he is not alone, and he can stand tall without fear of cracking his skull. For habit’s sake, he starts at two, three, five, and makes his way as high as sixty-one before thinking to last night’s game. It had been enlightening, in a strange way. Both for what it revealed of Jinx and of her friends’—for surely they would admit to being friends, unlike Charon—reactions.

And then her surprisingly introspective speech, even if it was lubricated by the whiskey. Even with her admitted doubts and fears, he knows she possesses greater integrity than she believes.

Integrity in the dark. The phrase stirs recollection.

 _Character is what you are in the dark_.

A quote, even if he forgets the author. Is that why she is so terrified of being alone, fearful that her character won’t stand without another’s scrutiny? Hard to believe, but not impossible for a painfully earnest young woman still struggling to do what’s right.

Time crawls on, his thoughts twisting like the path of a labyrinth. He hears Jinx stir, metal scraping metal as she rises and walks to him. The noise of her passage is a small thing, but it is magnified by the underground silence.

“Surely it’s not your watch yet?” he softly asks.

She taps her Pip-Boy, flashing the time at him. “Soon enough. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Something troubling you, my friend?”

Jinx laughs, using one hand over her mouthpiece to muffle the sound. “Nothing. Just one of those nights.” A pause, and she casually leans one hip against the wall. “But thank you.”

He blinks, confused and hesitant. “For what?”

“For being my friend.” Despite her face being hidden beneath the helmet, the set of her head implies she is averting her eyes, gaze distant and carefully hoarding her insecurities.

Carefully, similarly wary of meeting her gaze too boldly, he states “You gave me freedom and the chance to do good in this world. I owe you far more than mere friendship.”

“Do you truly feel you ‘owe’ me friendship?” Even through the helmet she sounds naked and vulnerable. He immediately wishes he could swallow those words, their lingering breath bitter on his tongue.

“No. I just meant—“ And here he founders, all his strength and literacy still leaving him helpless to deal with one teenage girl. Or maybe just Jinx. “—I meant you have earned my services, but you have gained my friendship. You are worthy of far more than a Frankenstein’s companionship.” He attempts a weak smile but she shakes her head in irritation.

“You are a good man, Fawkes. And you are no Frankenstein.” There is steel in her voice and Jinx gives his hand a brief squeeze, the servos in her suit making it uncomfortably firm. “Frankenstein was a self-centered, self-deluded man. His so-called ‘monster’ was the true victim of the whole story. But… well, you were listening to the stories at Big Town, right?”

Fawkes nods, barely dipping his chin as he wonders at the relevance.

“Stories… change, over time. The stories we tell, the _kinds_ of stories we tell. What we pull out of them.” Her fingers tap a staccato rhythm against one arm. “I bet the stories they told were different from whatever you pulled up on your terminal. They were different from the prewar fairytales I grew up with, at least.” A bitter laugh. “Then again, I heard the sanitized versions, down in the vault—the original Grimm tales were fairly grim too.” A long pause, and then she shakes her head in irritation. “Ugh. What I was trying to get at was that stories have _meaning_. And when people talk about you—tell stories about you, and me, and all the radio adventures Three Dog howls about—I want them to hear the beating heart of the tale, not whatever mutilated version comes out.”

Now it’s his turn to pause, considering the oddness of her convictions. Finally, he allows, “Perhaps I should read the original tale then.”

“I think you should. Good read. Nice little morality tale in there too. Mostly about hurt people hurting people.” Her words are low and fierce, making Fawkes lean closer so he can catch them.

“Hurting people?”

She tilts her face up, watching him with glowing eyes. “Hurt people hurt people. It’s something my dad says—used to say.” Her voice catches, but she continues doggedly. “When you’re hurt, you lash out. Say things. Do things. Sometimes if you get hurt badly enough, you never learn to get better. It doesn’t excuse everything people do, but sometimes it makes it easier to understand them. Even the bullies.” A soft sigh rattles her helmet. “If your dad’s dead and your mom’s an alcoholic, it sometimes feels better to pull pranks and steal what you want. It might not be a solution, but it might make you feel a little bit better about the hand you’ve been dealt. Even if the game was rigged from the start.”

“Doesn’t that absolve them of responsibility for their actions?” Fawkes asks quietly, wondering if she fears her own personal sins of omission.

“No. But maybe it makes forgiveness easier.” She loosely wraps her arms about herself, rocking slowly. “Like raiders. Or would-be muggers. Just… maybe sometimes you have basically good people fucking up in a fucked up world.” The vulgarity sounds strange from her lips, as if plucked from another’s mouth.  “Like Jericho. He’s not _nice_ , but he has his moments. And he makes no bones about having been a raider and doing bad things. But people change. People change all the time.”

“An admirable philosophy, if difficult to put into practice,” he allows, thinking to the raiders they encountered just outside. Regardless of the paths that lead them to traveling in gangs to ambush travelers, pacificism is impractical for the battlefield.

 Something of his thoughts must be present on his face since Jinx chuckles. “War never changes. But people do. By the roads they walk and the choices they make. I’m still changing, each and every day. The day I stop learning, growing, doing—the day I _stagnate_ —that’s when I die.” She squeezes her arms, hugging herself tightly and twisting with the motion. She looks so small, even in the exoskeleton of her power armor.

Nineteen and change. Still painfully young, but painfully experienced on so many other matters. This is a harsh world, but perhaps some souls can only thrive under adversity. If she had been born before the war, free to dance and sing and read to her heart’s content, would she be nearly as strong as she is now?

His thoughts are interrupted when she taps her Pip-Boy, frowning at the time. “Time for you to get some sleep, Fawkes.”

Hesitantly, he asks “Would you prefer company?”

She chuckles, neither confirming nor denying as she shrugs. “Defeats the purpose of a watch system. Rest up.”

Uneasy but unable to pinpoint why, he murmurs “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” A pause, then a slow trickle of words, hesitant as tip-toeing through a minefield. “Would you like—I mean, may I give you a hug? I enjoyed our discussion.” A trace of humor, one finger to the side of her jaw. “Even if I was the one doing most of the talking.”

“The pleasure was mutual,” he murmurs, remaining in place with his arms hanging loose from his body. They stand there for a few moments, simply looking at one another.

Finally, foot tapping a staccato rhythm against the floor, she asks “Ah—was that a yes or no? Should I hug you, or should you go to bed?” with just a trace of a nervous giggle.

Laughing awkwardly, he rubs one hand against the back of his neck. “I thought you were attempting to initiate the hugging protocol.” He even manages to make it deadpan, though his cheeks ache with the suppressed smile.

“Ha. C’mere then.”

Fawkes only has to take half a step before she closes the distance, armor-clad arms sweeping him into a low embrace. It is an awkward thing, what with the cool metal pressed against his skin and him careful to keep his hands away from the power pack resting on her back, but precious like a child’s first steps.

Despite sleeping on a mattress of questionable origin, it’s one of his better nights of rest.

* * *

 

He wakes to Jinx patting his shoulder. They break their fast, and then proceed through the rest of the underground connections. Not having to deal with the relentless sun at least makes this easier than yesterday’s travel. Far sooner than expected, they reach the chain-link fence marking the end of the metro station. Jinx pauses, tapping her finger against her helmet in the way that Fawkes is learning to interpret as ‘rueful smile.’

“Careful leaving now,” she cautions. “Some nasty types like to ambush anyone coming out from the tunnels, and it’s easy to get sun-blinded.”

Fawkes nods, bracing his Gatling laser against one shoulder. “Understood. But it would appear raiders are no longer a concern for one such as yourself.”

“For ones such as _us_ ,” she corrects, now giving a bright sharp laugh that cuts knife-like through her metal helmet. “And even raiders, if they have frag grenades or a rocket launcher, can be nasty enough. Talon Company mercenaries are my bigger concern these days, and the DC area is crawling with hostile super mutants.”

“Should I wait until you make sure it’s clear?” Gob asks, eyes flicking towards the exit.

“If you don’t mind. C’mon now, Fawkes,” Jinx orders, slipping into casual command with ease. Fawkes finds himself reassured rather than irritated by this. A hierarchy of sorts is important, and the battlefield is hardly the time or place to obey all the civilities.

His pulse quickens as he follows her into the light, breath filling his lungs with renewed vigor even as he hears a jeering voice call, “Hey, it’s that little saint from the vault! _Get her, boys_.”

Dogmeat surges up the steps, releasing a bloodthirsty howl that thrums through Fawkes like electricity. Sanity is a precious thing, rational thought hard-won after years of isolation, but he feels a red rawness gnawing about the edges. Even with the strange elation coursing through him, he remains detached enough to be horrified by his own response as he starts laughing. Sweeping a red line through the air, his lips twist up in a gratified snarl as he neatly disarms the closest figure in black armor before sizzling him to fine ash.

Jinx is running up the steps now as well, though staying just low enough to avoid complete exposure while sweeps low, her plasma rifle crippling men’s legs. Fawkes takes that opportunity to race up the other broken escalator, long limbs taking the steps two at a time. A disturbingly barbaric part of his mind notes the shock on the men’s faces, but they have only moments to be surprised before they too are downed.

“On your right!” Jinx shouts, and Fawkes turns. The brief fight at the satellite tower had been a careful thing, a planned thing—but this feels natural as breathing, sweeping in opposite directions to keep each other covered. He hears a wild, distorted laugh, followed by _“Good_ Dogmeat!” just as he ducks to one side. The staccato roar of an assault rifle rips past him, but before the mercenary can correct his aim, Fawkes’ laser strikes in the tight triangle of his chest and neck.

“Any more?” he grunts, pulse pounding in his ears like thunder.

Jinx cackles discordantly. “Any more bullets or lasers firing at you?”

“No.”

“Then they’re gone.” Her voice drips smug satisfaction and she gives her plasma rifle an affectionate pat. Dogmeat trots back to them, muzzle and paws stained scarlet. His tongue lolls out as Jinx crouches to pet him, scratching behind his ears and cooing inane baby talk. “Who’s a good little Dogmeat? _You_ are. You are. My favorite furry monster.”

‘Monster.’ Fawkes breathes heavily through his nostrils, willing his thoughts to stillness and calm. The primal part of himself must go back to its cage lest he become like his less intelligent brethren.

“Hey Gob! It’s safe to come out, but I’m looting. The armor’s pretty good, and their weapons tend to be decent.  If we’re lucky, we might even get some stimpaks out of this,” she says cheerily, moving to inspect the closest corpse. She collects their guns and strips them out of their armor with ruthless efficiency, humming an unfamiliar tune. Using a knife to cut away at a not-too-soiled undershirt, she uses the scavenged rag to clean the gore coating Dogmeat’s fur. The faithful canine grins contentedly, tail thumping the ground.

She extends one arm in front of her, examining a fresh dent on her vambrace as Gob climbs the broken elevator. “At least this armor can take a hit. Much better than that armored vault suit or the bits of raider gear I had to cobble for a while.” Turning her head to peer at Fawkes, she asks, “How are you?”

“Uninjured.”

“Bullshit,” Gob cuts in from Fawkes’ other side. “Got a gash running along your torso there. Looks like one of their bullets clipped you.”

“Do I?” Fawkes mutters, brows knitting together as he twists to examine himself. “So I do. I suppose the adrenaline of battle drove it from my mind.”

“Hold still.” Jinx’s tone brooks no disobedience, and she peels off her metal gauntlets as she walks over. Pouring a splash of purified water on a clean rag taken from one of the many compartments of her power armor, she wipes at the fresh injury. Fawkes bites a hiss as she cleans it, but makes no complaint until she gives him a very deliberate jab.

“I do not believe proper medical care requires poking the patient.” His voice remains civil, deliberately so even as some dark thing in the recesses of his psyche growls. Frankly, it terrifies him.

“No, it doesn’t,” she replies absently. Then she winces. “I am sorry. I should have asked, but it’s just… you know, you’re healing a lot faster than expected. Yesterday’s injuries too, not just this. Already clotting and no more active bleed. Must play havoc with your metabolism. I’m going to wrap this up for now, but I’d really appreciate if you let me take another look later tonight.”

“If you remember to ask,” he gently admonishes.

“I will. Ask, I mean.” Jinx ducks her head, another familiar gesture that implies blushing under that helmet. “You’re fascinating. My d—“  A brief stutter, and her voice is cool and distant. ”Moira would love to take a look at you.”

Fawkes averts his gaze, uncertain of whether it would be kinder to acknowledge or ignore that flash of pain.

Gob opts to change the topic instead, the ghoul tracing a finger over the white emblem on one of the fallen mercenaries’ armor. “How did you manage to get Talon Company gunning for you?” The gravelly tone is gentle rather than curious.

Jinx shrugs, metal plates clinking together. “Just lucky, I guess. First thought it might be Mr Burke making his displeasure known, but his letters made it pretty clear it wasn’t him.”

“Mr Burke?” Fawkes asks, feeling adrift in the conversation.

Gob shrugs, helping Jinx gather the last of the scavenged supplies and packing them for travel. “You know that bomb in the center of Megaton? That man wanted it detonated.”

Fawkes’ face twists in astonishment. Even without eyebrows, the slack in his jaw makes the expression clear. “Surely you joke.”

“No, and my name’s not Shirley,” Jinx snorts, performing one last visual sweep before fiddling with her Pip-Boy to confirm their course. She starts walking, and Gob and Fawkes easily fall in step alongside her. Dogmeat trails behind, tail wagging. “Wish I were. Man was dressed nice and clean, but was also… how does that saying go? Is there an opposite to saying someone’s a few crayons short of a pack?”

The ghoul follows Jinx’s wending thought paths more quickly than Fawkes. “So sharp he’d cut himself?”

“Exactly,” Jinx agrees, leaving an increasingly bewildered Fawkes to parse the meaning of that statement. Some of his confusion must show on his face, since Jinx takes pity and elaborates. “It wasn’t that he was an idiot or crazy, but he had this sense of almost hyper-rationality. Thinking. A lot of thinking going on under that hat, and none of it good. So I had to take care of him.”

“You fought him, then?” Fawkes asks slowly, wondering at Jinx’s history of overly direct approaches.

She laughs, nerves skittering along the edges. “Worse. I tried seducing him. Got the idea out of an old vid… Stupidest idea I ever had, especially in hindsight. Scrawny little kid fresh from a vault trying to put the moves on a man twice her age? And who wants to blow up a town?” She banishes the naïve girl she had once been with a twitch of her wrist. “Scariest thing is… it worked. Sort of.”

“Well, he _did_ leave Megaton,” Gob allows.

“Yeah. And proceeded to send me increasingly deranged love letters.” Jinx snorts, kicking an inoffensive pebble out of her path. “I figure as long as it’s letters… well, if he stays at Tenpenny Tower and I steer clear of it, I figure we’re both better off.”

“Love letters.” Repeating the phrase doesn’t make it any less ridiculous, much to Fawkes’ chagrin.

“’Love letters’ makes it sound too romantic,” she admits with a long sigh, “but ‘obsession letters’ doesn’t have quite the same punch.” Holding one hand out, tipping it slightly as if weighing a scale, she continues. “Either he really did fall in love—which is not a great sign for mental stability—or he decided to play the game and just _pretend_ to fall in love.” A disgusted raspberry echoes through her helmet. “Neither option bodes well.”

“You were willing to play the part, but not to believe you succeeded,” he states in clarification.

She dismisses his concern with an airy flick of her fingers. “I never claimed to be logical. But I _really_ don’t trust any of that ‘love at first sight’ type of rubbish.”

Gob gives a dry cough, swabbing his bandanna against his temples. “Never figured you to not be a romantic.”

“I just don’t think ‘love at first sight’ has anything to do with real romance. It’s just… arbitrary and unrealistic.” She huffs loudly, the sound echoing through her helmet as she crosses her arms. “Maybe ‘lust at first sight’ but love—real love—has got to have some sort of foundation. I don’t think you can get that from just meeting someone for the first time.”

“So what creates a foundation?”

Fawkes gives the ghoul a sidelong glance, but Gob’s face shows only genuine curiosity.

Jinx’s response is quick and easy. “Time. Making memories—good ones, the kind that you look back on when you’re lonely. Mutual respect.” Her tone turns wistful, feet dragging as she traces a line behind her. “Being able to laugh or play together. Making better days for one another. At least it beats ‘procreation is your civic duty.’”

The conversation turns lighter as Gob laughs at the vault’s ‘civic duty.’ Jinx and Gob end up chattering at one another while Fawkes mulls over Jinx’s professed foundation.

It bears a lot of similarities to a friendship.


	13. Frankenstein

Despite Jinx’s warnings, they encounter no super mutants on their trek to GNR studios. Living ones, at least; there are a few scattered corpses as they pass through the shattered, bombed out buildings. Gob eyes the pink carcass of a tentacled centaur with repulsed fascination.

“If super mutants were humans once, what were those?” he asks with a shudder.

“Others who did not take well to the FEV,” Fawkes murmurs. “Animals, in some cases.”

Gob swallows, and might be blanching if he had more skin to show it. “Ick.”

“Fawkes, might want to take my hand or hang back. Brotherhood tends to shoot mutants on sight,” Jinx cautions as they reach an open area. More figures in power armor are visible behind fortified positions. Recognizing the wisdom of her statement, Fawkes elects to remain in shelter of the building while the others advance. The Brotherhood equipment looks far more intimidating than the simpler weapons of Big Town and Megaton.

Just as before, Jinx walks out with her hands waving. “Hey! Good to see the Brotherhood again! It’s me, Jinx!” she calls, removing her helmet to let her hair shine neon-bright.

Fawkes overhears a few scattered greetings, but ponders at how easily recognizable she is. That hair alone…

She is talking now, words high and fast as Gob stands beside her. Jinx gesticulates wildly, and he does not have to hear their words to recognize an argument. Whatever respect the Brotherhood warriors have for her seems of little use in arguing for Fawkes’ passage. But resolution comes as a new arrival takes part.

“If she trusts the greenskin, I say give him a chance. Your weapons will be on hand anyway,” the man says, nodding to Jinx.

She responds with an emphatic hug, metal clanging on metal. “Finally, someone willing to listen! Thanks you, Gallows!”

More low voices, but Fawkes cannot catch them. Whatever’s being said, Jinx frowns, tapping her foot in irritation. With a sigh, she calls, “C’mon, Fawkes.”

Feeling like an unwanted stray—less wanted than Dogmeat, even, the panting dog receiving pets from a crouching Brotherhood paladin—he moves into the open. Jinx closes the distance between them, reaching for his hand and squeezing tight. Fawkes allows the familiarity, all too aware of the watching soldiers.

“Fawkes, this is Gallows, of Lyons’ Pride,” she says by introduction, though the affiliation means nothing to Fawkes. “Gallows, this is Fawkes. A true friend.”

“Hail and well met,” the man states, though coolly. “You and the ghoul are free to enter. I would just like a few moments to speak with him.”

Jinx grimaces, her grip tightening. “Just speaking?”

“I stand by my word.” His arms cross and he tilts his head, adding, “I can swear by my name if it makes you feel better.” The gentle tone implies a shared joke, and Jinx snorts. But a smile still crosses her lips, like clouds across the moon.

“First name included?”

“Full name,” he confirms. His straight-backed posture softens, the casual shift visible even in his armor. “Good to see you again. Surprised you didn’t go to the Citadel first.”

“Surprised _you_ aren’t at the Citadel,” Jinx admits, tucking her helmet under one arm.

“I was aiding against the super mutants. And we were waiting for you to return with the GECK.”

It is hard to read Gallows through the helmet, but Jinx flinches back. “’We’ meaning the Pride, Elder Lyons, or…?”

“All of the above.”

“Dammit. I’m not even _part_ of the Brotherhood,” she mutters, face ashen. Even her eyes seem dull. With a slow exhale, she adds “Well, don’t worry. I’ll be back to update Elder Lyons, have no fear. Just have a few other things to take care of.”

“Every day that passes, the Enclave is able to further fortify their position at the purifier—“ one of the other paladins argue, but Jinx wheels on her like a bird of prey.

“Was anyone else volunteering to head into Vault 87?” she says quietly, voice deathly calm. “And I highly doubt they are _fortifying_ the purifier right now. They have enough on their hands after Raven Rock imploded.” A pause, and she bitingly adds, “You’re welcome for that one, too.”

Gallows makes a brief chopping moment at the outspoken woman and dips his head to Jinx in apology. “We’ll catch up later, Jinx. But it _is_ good to see you again.” The last is low but sincere, without hesitation.

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes are soft now, the words without harsh bite. Butting her head against Fawkes’ arm, she murmurs, “C’mon, Gob. Three Dog keeps late hours, but he’s probably up by now.”

Fawkes watches the two enter the studio with trepidation, wondering what sort of talk Gallows has in mind. Gob shoots a sympathetic look over one shoulder before vanishing from sight. Only Dogmeat remains as moral support, tongue lolling out as he plops himself beside Fawkes.

As soon as the door swings shut, Gallows begins without preamble. “Jinx vouches for you, but Jinx also trusts easily.” ‘Too easily’ stays unspoken, but Fawkes hears it as clearly as if the man were shouting.  “Watch yourself.”

Trying not to betray his unease, Fawkes schools his face to impassivity. “Understood.”

“Is it?” Gallows sounds almost amused, shifting his weight to one side. His power armor is astonishingly quiet despite the movement. “I am the Brotherhood’s expert regarding super mutants. My kill tally’s higher than anyone else’s, and I _like_ what I do.” Fawkes imagines him smiling under the helmet, knife-sharp and dangerous. “I spend my R &R crawling the ruins, trying to make the world a bit safer for everyone else by killing as many mutants as possible. Big as you all are, it’s not as hard as most people think. Bigger target. I’ve even gone up close and personal when I’ve had to. Power armor helps of course, but the trick is to go under the reach of a big brute as he’s swinging, try and jab a knife or something sharp under the ribs. A gut wound’s a slow death, but if you can puncture a lung that’ll take ‘em down fast.”

Fawkes’ skin crawls. The worst of it is how _matter of fact_ Gallows is, with no trace of swagger or braggadocio. It’s not even a threat, but an unspoken promise of what will happen should he betray Jinx’s trust.

“Are we done here?” he asks quietly.

“Pretty much,” is Gallows’ affable response. He crosses his arms, dipping his head in a way that could almost be mistaken for deference. “Feel free to enter.”

Fawkes’ neck crawls as he ducks into the radio station, wondering how long it will take until people trust him on more than Jinx’s say-so. His green skin and towering height are more permanent than ink, emblazoning ‘monster’ across his form no matter how many good deeds he attempts.

 _Virtue is its own reward, contributing some small sum of good to the totality of the universe_ , he attempts to argue with himself, feeling vaguely guilty at the notion of attempting to ‘earn’ trust and respect rather than performing out of pure altruism.

The two guards inside do not bother to greet him, and deign not to even speak to him when he asks where to find his companions. Instead, one points upstairs.

So Fawkes trudges up, following the thread of laughter until he finds Jinx and Gob sitting next to a grinning, dark-skinned man whose eyes glitter behind wire-framed glasses. The stranger cups one hand to his beard, letting loose a low, playful howl.

“Hey there, big man! Someone’s been telling me _stories_ about you!” he whoops over Dogmeat’s answering bark.

“Only good things, I hope,” Fawkes tentatively says.

The man laughs ebulliently, sweeping his arms in an elaborate seated bow.  “More than good things! I am _Three Dog,_ bow wow wow! At your service!”

“Fawkes.” He is not sure whether to sit on the ground or remain standing. Three Dog sits at the edge of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees. Jinx sprawls back on a folding chair, one hand casually looped over the back, while Gob remains seated somewhat stiffly, hands folded and on his lap.

“See? Not a ‘Frankenstein,’” Jinx says smugly, tapping one foot against the floor. “And you can kill the radio persona, you know.”

“My voice is my weapon, Vaultie. And I’m _always_ fighting the Good Fight. And anybody that fights the Good Fight, whatever the weapons or color of their skin—hell, even if they ain’t got skin—“ Three Dog guffaws, leaning to give Gob a slap on the back. The ghoul jolts at the unexpected touch, but with a wide, foolish grin on his face. “—them’s all right in my book. I’ll be updating my public service announcements, no worries lady and gents.”

“Speaking of books, did you ever actually _read_ Frankenstein?” The tone is arch, even though Jinx taps Three Dog’s cheek playfully.

He leans back, wriggling away from the unwelcome touch of metal on flesh. “Nah. Just hard to find books across the Wastes, you dig?”

Jinx is not deterred by flippancy. “I dig, but with the Arlington Library starting to get cleaned up and sorted, you _could_ ,” she argues. “Heck, I can loan you my copy.”

Three Dog clutches his heart as if wounded, grimacing in agony. “Ouch, the lady is _schooling_ me! Ah, the humanity!”

“Ah, the ‘update your announcements,’ and we’re even,” she snorts, the dismissive wave of her hand somewhat belied by the smile she has to fight down.

Grinning, Three Dog offers, “Hey, I can swap you Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde for it.”

“Deal. I’ll trade next time I swing by the studios.”

“You’re on. But maybe I can make a special recording for our listeners out there,” Three Dog suggests, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Like those old interview-style radio shows, using y’all as guests.”

Jinx shrugs, hands spread in front of her. “I’m game if they are.”

“You’d really air it?” Gob murmurs in awe, finally having managed to un-swallow his tongue.

“Hell yeah! A ghoul, a mutant, and the Lone Wanderer? What better way to tell people to shove their prejudices at the door!” His eyes glitter wickedly, teeth flashing like the crescent moon. “I can always edit it to get the best bits, but I bet people will be tuning in even if all you do is read the dictionary.”

Swept along by his enthusiasm, Fawkes shrugs helplessly. “As you wish.”

“Well, giddyup Buttercup, let me get this tape rolling,” Three Dog chortles, jumping to his feet in a flurry of limbs. He moves in a frenzy of hyperkinetic activity, grabbing a recording device and hooking it to a pair of microphones. “I only got the two, but we can share.”

“Hey. Before we start—“ Jinx says with uncharacteristic hesitancy, reaching out to squeeze Three Dog’s arm, “—just wanted to say thanks. For… for talking about my dad. No lie,” she adds quickly, holding up her other hand to forestall any protests, “I didn’t like it at first. That’s _my_ dad, _my_ loss. Wasn’t yours to share. But thanks for trying. I appreciate the thought.” Her voice catches but she blinks fast, eyes glittering as she continues. “I don’t even have a body to bury, but it’s good to know he wasn’t forgotten.”

Three Dog bumps his knuckles to her chin, smiling ruefully. “Yeah, I love our boys in power armor but they don’t do ‘comfort’ real well. Was the best way to send you a hug across the airwaves, vault gal.”

“I’ll take it.” Her hand cups his, then releases as she sits back in her chair. Fawkes takes advantage of this exchange to sit between her and Gob, framed by the two people he knows and facing Three Dog.

“Now this ain’t going live, so just relax while I get it started,” the radio announcer chuckles, hitting ‘play.’ “Dun da-da-da….” He continues with the dramatic roll before howling his signature “What’s _up_ Capital Wasteland?! Today, we got some _very_ special guests…”

Gob gets introduced first (“our man Gob the ghoulie!”), stuttering into the microphone when Three Dog passes it over. Then it’s Fawkes’ turn (“the biggest, greenest friend you can have!”), Three Dog pointing at him when it’s his cue. He and Jinx end up sharing the microphone, the little Lone Wanderer going last (“and a gal who needs no introduction but I’ll do it anyway: Little Miss Vault One-oh-one!”) with a cheesy grin (“you can’t see it folks, but she’s got a bombshell smile!”) and a flirtatious, “ _He-ey,_ Capital Wasteland!”

“Alright, first order of business. Per our paragon of humanity—“

“Oh, _stop_ ,” Jinx laughs, slapping his shoulder and rolling her eyes. He fends her off with one arm, shielding his microphone with the other.

“Per our modest mouse, I gotta update our public service announcement, kiddies. As you _may_ have been able to tell, Fawkes is a super mutant. But his heart, his soul, is very much human!”

Fawkes cringes, feeling his ears burn. Jinx grins up at him, pointing at Three Dog and mouthing something rude.

“So cut our man a break, and if you see a big green Franken- aw, dammit,” he swears as Jinx mimes swatting him. “Not allowed to say ‘Frankenstein’ in front of the lady, she keeps saying I’m using the word wrong. If you see a big green _man_ shambling around after our pint-sized hero, keep your itchy fingers off the triggers and give ‘em both a big hand! Or better yet, some _ammo_!”

The rest of the interview is far less nerve-wracking, with Three Dog bouncing questions off both Gob and Jinx. Gob gets inquiries about the state of ghoul/smoothskin relations (most of which Three Dog sums up as ‘terrible’), while Jinx gets asked questions about Wasteland survival.

“So how did our little gal crawl out from a hole in the ground and learn to survive, thrive, and _revive_ our community?”

“With scars,” Jinx deadpans. “Lots of scars. But also…”

Fawkes doesn’t truly listen to most of her responses, even when Three Dog starts asking about the Wasteland Survival Guide she helped co-write. Scars. Lots of scars. Memories etched into flesh. Still, with her haunted story of Icarus and the labyrinth, he doubts she would trade a single one for the ‘safety’ of familiar confines.

“…and for our other visitor from a vault, what about you, Fawkes? What do you do to keep the boredom blues away?”

He pauses just a little too long, ears heated as he tries to catch up. Three Dog’s teeth flash in a knowing grin.

“Our Jinx is a smart kid, loves her reading and has _excellent_ taste in music. What keeps a smart mutant like you entertained?”

“Books. I like history. Novels. Some poetry,” he says hesitantly.

“Anything juicy for us? Love poems?”

Fawkes cringes as Jinx swoops to the rescue.

“No love poems, but here’s _my_ favorite. Robert Frost poem I memorized for class, and it’s stuck with me ever since. ‘ _Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold…’_ ”

Her timely interruption allows him to regroup his thoughts, feeling tongue-tied and foolish. When Jinx finishes the poem, Three Dog casually bats the conversation back to Fawkes with, “And that was beautiful, ladies and gents. Anything else beautiful caught your eye up in this gorgeously desolate Wasteland, Fawkes?”

“Sunlight.”

Jinx makes a little flapping gesture with one hand, urging him on. Mouthing ‘be human.’ He coughs, trying to think of how disarming she is with her vulnerability and her laughter and her joy…

“The sunlight. It was… blinding when I first stepped out. But beautiful. Bright.” His lips ache, and he realizes he’s smiling. “Warm. Comforting. I had never seen sunlight before—and it is a blessing easy to take for granted in this sun-drenched grit, but it is beautiful. I had never missed the sun because I never knew its presence, but now that I have, I can never go back to living in the darkness.”

Jinx is biting her lower lip, eyes crinkling as she swipes the back of her hand across one cheek. Heartened, he continues.  “This is a world filled with wonder. Not the least of which is the fact that I have been privileged to meet the woman you call the Lone Wanderer.”

The rest of the interview consists of more light-hearted banter, though Three Dog whistles and frequently takes scribbled notes for particularly juicy voice clips. When they finally wind down, Three Dog rises to shake hands with all three of them. Jinx does him one better, standing on tip-toe wrap her arms about him. The man rocks back on his heels, slapping her armor-clad shoulder with a grin.

“This ain’t goodbye forever, Little Miss One-oh-one. Not by a long shot. Keep on surviving and thriving.”

“Easy for you to say, holed up here in this fortified bunker,” she snorts, ducking her head so he can’t see the smile on her lips.

Three Dog laughs, free and clear. “I’ve heard the reports. If you’re going after the Enclave, I’m almost sorry for those sons of bitches. And now…” His voice trails off, and he turns the brilliance of his smile upon Fawkes, the super mutant standing still as a statue. “Hey, you’ve got your very own big green guardian angel.”

Fawkes forces an answering expression, lips twisting upward and just barely remembering to keep his teeth covered. He tries to imagine Three Dog’s trust as an aegis, the new public service announcement a token of protection as they meet new people.

But Gallows’ brisk handshake and one-armed embrace with Jinx wilts those hopes. The hostile paladin nods to Gob, but simply fixes Fawkes with a cold stare that he feels even through the helmet. The itch between his shoulders fails to abate even after they trudge back through the ruined buildings, Jinx taking the lead as they head towards Underworld.

It’s only when a small hand presses to his, cool metal pinching his skin, that he releases a long sigh. Jinx butts her chin against his arm, her voice apologetic.

“Sorry about Gallows. He is… protective. But he’s tough, he’s loyal, and once you get his trust, you’ve got a friend for life.”

Fawkes shrugs noncommittally, wondering if once again, Jinx is trying to see the best in people.

She falters, swallowing. The gulp is audible even through her helmet. “He’ll learn. They’ll all learn. It’s hard to be an outsider, but you keep trying anyway. Better than just… just giving up.”

“Better than doing what’s left,” he murmurs, finally taking pity on her attempts at comfort. Even if they are only to salve a guilty conscience, some lingering attempt to reconcile her two friends not getting along, this is his matter. Not hers.

“Yeah. Because if you stop trying, what else can you do?”

The question haunts his steps for the rest of their trek.


	14. Her Father's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to WTGW for encouragement and beta'ing. :)

Jinx guides them the rest of the way to the Museum of Natural History, wending through the underground tunnels and finally emerging in a different section of the ruined city. Fawkes blinks, sun-dazzled once more as they leave the shadowed metro.

Gob stares, jaw slack and hands hanging loose by his side.

“It looks so… unchanged,” he says finally, barely above a whisper.

“Hard to ruin things more than the bombs did.” Despite the flippancy in her voice, she squeezes his shoulder. He raises one hand hesitantly, settling it over her metal glove for a few scant moments.

She bumps her chin against his hand before breaking away. “C’mon, but be careful. Super mutants like to set up in the nearby trenches.”

Despite her warning, there are no mutants nearby. A female ghoul wearing bright red lipstick over cracked lips waves in greeting.

“Hello, tourists,” she says, pulling a cigarette from a pocket before pausing, the unlit stick halfway to her mouth. Hesitantly, she calls “Gob?”

“Willow!” Gob laughs, grinning wide and holding his arms out, half-extended and uncertain.

There is absolutely no uncertainty as she sweeps him in a tight embrace, the cigarette dropping to the ground. “Never knew we were getting you back! Carol will be so glad to see you.”

Fawkes averts his gaze, uncomfortable with this intimate display. He catches Jinx staring at them, eyes sharp with hunger and her helmet under one arm, but she forcefully turns her head to the side. Her cheeks are dark with color.

“Glad to see people didn’t just forget me,” Gob murmurs, finally breaking away. He looks a new man, years of abuse and servitude sloughing off his shoulders. In his new clothes and leather armor, with another ghoul and no longer holding himself in with all the small hesitancies and awareness of being so other…

…this is a homecoming, and Fawkes finds his gut clench with an unfamiliar sensation, a sense of _want_ overlying the usual loneliness, sour and prickling.

_Envy_ , he realizes. _This is envy_.

The realization makes him nearly as uncomfortable as watching them embrace.

Willow smiles liplessly at Jinx and Fawkes in turn, her milky eyes shining. “Thank you, Wanderer. And… mutant?”

“Meta human,” Fawkes says quietly. “My name is Fawkes.”

“I am Willow. Pleasure to meet friends of friends. But speaking of friends—Charon is inside, hanging around the Ninth Circle.”

Jinx blanches at the mention of her erstwhile companion, lips compressing in a thin line. Drumming her fingers against the helmet, she asks, like probing a sore tooth, “And how is he?”

“Who can tell?” Willow snorts. “He said his contract had passed to Carol, but Carol doesn’t really like him hanging around her place. He sets the customers off and she doesn’t usually need a guard anyway, so she lets Snowflake borrow him for busting drunks.”

“Alpha and omega, beginning and the end,” Jinx mutters, thumping a fist over her belly in disgust. “The more things change… well. Gob, let’s get you home,” she says, eyes shuttered against whatever storms rage within.

Gob has enough sense not to pry, following her inside the building. Dogmeat trots ahead, oblivious to Fawkes’ awe at the mighty bones still on display. Even stepping over the disarray of wires and fallen pieces from another skeleton fails to diminish his wonder. Mostly, he is amazed that the exhibits have survived this long without more damage. Or perhaps the ghouls attempt maintenance? Either way, these emblems of an old world that had the luxury of preserving their history, capable of storing and teaching knowledge simply for the love of learning…

He wishes he could have known those times.

Jinx grins up at him, modern wanderer at ease amongst these relics of the past. Her hair is plastered flat against her scalp, emphasizing the shape of her skull as if she too wishes to join the exhibits and the lost world they represent. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“It’s _home_ ,” Gob chokes, stumbling forward as a tear trickles over ruined flesh. “God damn, but I never thought I’d see this place outside of dreams.”

Wordlessly, Jinx offers him her arm. He clutches at her like a lifeline, leaning against her shoulder. Fawkes passes on his other side, framing the ghoul between them, and unsure of what other comfort he can offer, settles one massive hand against the Gob’s back. They weave forward slowly in this fashion, towards the flickering trash-can fires erected outside Underworld.

“Do you want to take a minute?” Jinx asks softly.

Gob blots his tears, laughing shakily. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to say. I kept thinking I’d find the words, but what do you _say_ after thinking it’s goodbye forever…?”

She butts her forehead against his, fixing his gaze with hers. Close enough to kiss, her breath against his lips as she murmurs, “How about ‘hello’?”

So when they finally enter, Gob’s uncertain ‘Hello?’ brings a knot of interested ghouls to investigate, including one older ghoul missing most of her hair but wearing a relatively clean prewar dress. Jinx and Fawkes just stand to the side, allowing the two to simply embrace. Even Dogmeat appears to recognize the reverence of the moment, sitting obediently by Jinx and looking uncharacteristically regal with his tongue firmly inside his mouth.

Another ghoul woman stands close, arms awkwardly crossed in front of her, and shoots Jinx a look that Fawkes cannot quite interpret past the ruin of her face. A tendon in her cheek twitches, and then with a long exhale she goes to join the two, wrapping bony arms around Gob and the other woman. Fawkes just barely catches her murmuring, “Greta missed you, kid.”

Fawkes catches movement out of the corner of his eye—Jinx can move surprisingly quietly in that power armor—and sees her make for the stairs, moving towards a doorway with a sign declaring it to be the Ninth Circle. When he tries to surreptitiously move after her though, that’s when it attracts attention.

“Wouldn’t be home if it weren’t for Jinx—“ Gob says, blushing with what’s left of his skin and extending an arm in her direction.

She bows her head, but is not so easily swayed from her objective. “Glad to help. But don’t mind me. You’ve got some catching up to do.” Her smile is white and even, scythe-like in its brilliance. “And so do I.” Fawkes catches the swinging door as she strides into the Ninth Circle, and he shoots an apologetic look at Gob. The ghoul seems unoffended, just thoughtful, and shrugs helplessly.

Not sure what else to do, Fawkes follows her. He and Dogmeat fall side by side, two strays following the crumbs of her affection.

The bar is surprisingly full, but even if Charon weren’t a head taller than everyone else in the bar, he is immediately recognizable as the only other figure in power armor. His helmet rests on a nearby table, though his shotgun remains at his side.

“Charon.” Jinx’s gaze is fixed on the ghoul, either ignoring or simply not noticing the way the other patrons of the bar mutter amongst themselves and scurry out of the way.

Charon’s face and voice are entirely without expression as he rasps “Jinx.”

She simply stares at him, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists held rigid at her side. He looks back at her unblinkingly until finally she whispers, “Well. At least you’re safe.” Biting her tongue, she turns to collect herself.

Charon asks “Do you wish to re-employ me?”

Jinx snaps to attention, whipping her head back. “Really? You _want_ to come back with me?”

Charon’s silence takes on palpable weight, face preternaturally still as only his eyes move, searching Jinx’s face. Her jaw lays slack, but then she swallows harshly, gritting her teeth and mustering a response.

“C’mon, you know this dance.” She grins savagely, lips curled so it borders on a snarl. “Give me the _real_ answer, not what you think I _want_ to hear.” There are unshed oceans in her eyes, dark and fathomless.

“I will rejoin you if that is your wish.” The ghoul remains unmoved, steadfast as a cliff in the storm.

“That is _not_ my wish. Not unless—well, _shit_ ,” Jinx mutters, biting her lip at the uncharacteristic burst of profanity. “Not unless _your_ wish is to come on. Like a _friend_. Not an employee.” The silence stretches between them, taut and painful as Charon watches her. Finally, she blurts, “Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“I could not,” Charon responds evenly.

“Why not?”

“You commanded me _not_ to,” he says, words fiercely bitten off. “I _cannot_ attack unless you tell me to, or go to your aid if it means risking my hide. _You commanded me, Jinx_.” If he were another man, perhaps those last words would have been shouted, screamed, blasted out with all the force of a hurricane. But he is who he is, and all he does is speak low and terse.

But whatever their mutual faults, Jinx understands the shape of his anger. “When did I do that?” she asks, drawing back and eyes knitted in confusion.

“After that idiot mugger failed to rob you.” Charon’s gaze is tight, muscles twitching in his forehead as he levels her with a milky glare. “You _commanded_ me, and I had to _obey_ by my contract.”

The color drains from her face, cheeks chalky as she bites her chapped lips. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“You were my employer.” Low and terse, just as before.

She shuts her eyes tightly, breath rasping through her nostrils before she growls, “Not anymore, obviously. Are you—“ And here she stops again, fighting for words. “Are you _happier_ here?” The words tumble brokenly from her lips, sharp-edged pieces slicing across her tongue.

Rather than answer the question with a yes or no, he holds his fists loose and limber. “Would you perhaps feel better if we fought?” he asks harshly.

“What’s the _point_ , Charon?” Her shoulders are high, arms tight as her hands forcibly unclench, fingers curved like claws.

His eyes narrow. “Do you want to go, then?”

“Are you trying to pick a fight?” she snaps, slamming her palms onto the table and making his helmet rattle.

“If I have upset you, why _aren’t_ you fighting?” he asks harshly.

Jinx opens her mouth, then shuts it, collapsing into a chair like a puppet with the strings cut. “You’re doing that _thing_ again. And it’s not fair,” she mumbles. She holds up one hand to forestall any comments, though Charon doesn’t even open his mouth. “I know the world’s not fair, but… dammit. _Words_ should be weapons, not fists or guns.” She blinks, eyes shining bright before she drops her helmet in her lap. “I’m not fighting because I _choose_ not to. We might not have been friends, but…”

Her voice trails off, leaving the saloon in dead silence as all the ghouls have dropped their conversations, watching the tense tableau. Fawkes’ neck itches, but he does not even dare to reach up and scratch lest it break the spell.

Charon dips his head, breaking eye contact for the first time since Jinx entered. “You were one of my better employers. If you chose to take my contract back, I would not object.”

“No. But I would.” She smiles feebly, so patently false that Fawkes is shocked it does not peel away like cheap paint. “If you are happier here in Underworld—or whatever you call happiness, anyway—that’s fine.” Gulping, the small sound echoing through the bar, she mutters, “I’m gonna go say hi to Gob and Carol. I finally did what I shoulda done weeks ago.”

The chair slides back, scraping the wooden floor as she regains her feet. Tucking the helmet back under one arm, she is halfway to the door before Charon speaks again.

“You do not have to be your father’s daughter.”

Her footsteps falter, but she does not turn back.


	15. Becoming

Slowly the bar returns to life, soft whispers and idle chatter filling the silence, rippling through the room and washing against the silent former bodyguard. Fawkes gets his share of looks as well, but unlike the open hostility of the Brotherhood fingering their weapons or Shorty’s glares, there is simply a wary sort of caution. The way that any other group might eye a particularly large man, watchful but hoping not to be seen lest they incite a reaction.

It is not unlike how they watch Charon.

Charon does not move, simply gazing at the swinging door with a face like granite.

Finally, Fawkes scratches the back of his neck with one hand, uncertain of whether to follow Jinx—always a second shadow to the woman—or to attempt conversation. Charon shows no inclination either way, even when his eyes flick to watch Fawkes just as intently as he had been watching the doors.

“Did you really think she would strike you?” Not the true question weighing heavy on his mind, warping his thoughts to its shape, but the most neutral he can think of.

“No.”

The single syllable provides no additional insight, so Fawkes probes further.

“Why not?”

Charon gives Fawkes the single most _penetrating_ stare he has ever experienced, as if stripping skin and flesh to see the heart of him. Even without malice, it is uncomfortable.

“It is not in her nature.”

“You know her that well, then?”

“Better than most.” The ghoul inclines his head in the barest of dips, and Fawkes takes it as an invitation to sit across from him. The chair creaks beneath his weight, but holds steady as Charon continues. “You are her friend?”

“I would like to think so,” Fawkes allows, still unsure what Charon expects of him.

His teeth bare in a pained grimace that Fawkes soon realizes is a smile, of sorts. “Good. She is foolish. Impetuous. Kind. Naïve. She will need you to watch her back. If she asks you to spar, do not hold back. It will do neither of you any favors.” Each word is said dispassionately, like ticking items off a list. A pause, and his lips thin before he continues. “She is learning her path.” _She is learning to fly_ , Fawkes mentally substitutes. “She may falter. Allow her.”

Fawkes’ head throbs dully. “I do not understand. Why are you telling me this?”

“The world would be a poorer place for her absence.” The ghoul’s milky eyes gaze sternly into his own, as if passing a burden.

Swallowing, Fawkes cannot resist asking another question even though he cringes as soon as the words pass his lips. “I thought you were not her friend? Just an employee?”

Charon snorts, little more than a sharp exhale passing through what’s left of his nose. “I was not her friend.” His lips twist, muscles distorting. “But I was not ‘just’ an employee.” Danger lurks in the cadence of those syllables, and Fawkes quickly decides against pursuing that line of inquiry.

“What did you mean, she does not have to be her father’s daughter?” he asks instead.

The ghoul gives a thin smile. “We span centuries between us. There is more to speak of than a teenage girl.”

Fawkes blinks, cheeks burning as he recognizes the thrust to Charon’s acerbic comment. “My apologies.”

Charon simply watches, eyes boring through Fawkes. “Three days now. And she is your world. You have little to apologize for.”

“My apolo—“ He catches himself, but also catches the glint in Charon’s eye and the small tic at the corner of his mouth that might be the ghost of a laugh. “Yes. But my centuries have been of little note. How have yours passed?”

“I serve my purpose.” A quick and easy answer, too adroit to be anything but practiced. Fawkes frowns, speculating at how long Charon has been mouthing that phrase, and whether this reflects an innate reserve or the precise, machine-like mannerisms of a man accustomed to service.

A ghoul with a shockingly full head of hair wanders up, hands jauntily thrust in his pockets as he asks if either would like anything to drink. Fawkes blinks while deciding, one thumb rubbing over the base of his wrist, and tentatively orders a whiskey and cola. With a side-long glance to Charon, he offers to buy Charon’s next drink.

“No.” He nods briefly, looking at the bartender rather than Fawkes. “Water. Irradiated is good.”

“You got it, boys.”

“Do you not drink?” Fawkes asks, wishing—and wishes are a silly thing, but even if Charon does not wish to talk about her, at least Jinx’s ceaseless chatter is comforting, a gentle susurrus of noise that reminds him he is no longer alone in the world— that Charon were more generous with his parceled words.

“Not while I am on duty.”

“Are you ever off duty?”

Charon fixes him with a flat stare. “No.”

Swallowing, Fawkes wonders if Jinx had ever managed to penetrate this layer of terse deflection. Or had her words simply crashed around him, breaking like the ocean against the shore?

“What brings you joy, then?”

A pause in those milky eyes, gaze distant. Finally, as if imparting a great secret, Charon declares “Happiness is a warm gun.”

Fawkes stops breathing. In that moment, his heart may even have stopped beating, until finally, cautiously, _disbelievingly_ , he whispers, “You are a Beatles fan?”

In response, Charon dips his head. Barely a fraction of an inch, if that. And his cheek twitches, just slightly. But from Charon, that’s as good a response as grinning ear to ear. Fawkes can’t help chuckling, shoulders heaving as he first tries to contain it, then guffaws spilling out. The surrounding ghouls turn to look, conversations petering out as Fawkes starts roaring with laughter, one fist thumping the table.

Charon simply watches, waiting for the mirth to subside. When finally the bartender brings their drinks, Fawkes drains half his glass in one swallow to ease the ache in his throat. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he declares,

“I am in constant amazement at the wonders of this world.” A few days ago—a lifetime ago—he would have cringed at how slowly each word comes, their heavy weight dropping past his lips like stones. But he is too delighted at this small progress, and even delights in the realization that he _does_ take joy at this small victory. “Were you a fan from before the war?” His voice trails, uncertain as to how old Charon truly is. But the ghoul’s nod buoys his confidence, leading him to ask more questions.

In all honesty, it’s still not as if Charon is a font of loquaciousness—the man restricts himself to brief nods or shakes when possible, or short sentences that lay out bones without meat. But Fawkes warms to the task, finding an unexpected camaraderie with the other fighter. Despite his harsh demeanor and the fact that he moves like a remnant of a bygone age, a being _crafted_ for service rather than free to create his own image, Fawkes thinks he can see the faintest of hints as to why Charon was more than an employee, for more reasons than Jinx’s desperate need for validation.

They discuss music, albeit in a choppy, stumbling fashion as Fawkes works on eliciting longer responses. They deliberate fighting techniques, hand to hand combat and the importance of weapons maintenance (and, grudgingly, as if the words are being pulled with pliers, Charon admits that Jinx is ‘dedicated’ to her guns), the many places that Jinx has traipsed and Charon has followed, but despite Charon’s initial indication that they should talk about anything besides the impulsive young woman who haphazardly brought them together, Fawkes’ mind keeps circling about the topic. Like a dog unable to resist licking a wound, he states, “She needed you, didn’t she?”

He does not even wonder at why he used the past tense.

Charon blinks, gaze distant. Then he nods, once. Finally, pinning the last nail in place, he speaks. “Yes.”

“Why did she purchase your contract?”

A lipless smile, teeth like knives. “Talk to Jinx.”

“But surely you—”

“Why does it matter?”

Fawkes falters, unsure of his own motivations. Swallowing, he places the words together, like puzzle pieces finally fitting. “You said she is learning her path. She walks unknown roads, and I wish to accompany her to the end of that journey. If I am to be of service to her, I must know…” The metaphor fails, but he struggles to continue, tongue twisting through the acid-sweet taste of the lingering Nuka-Cola. “I must know where she has been, if I am to know where she is going.”

After five heartbeats, Charon nods, eyes relaxing in an expression strangely like approval. “You and I are created.”

It has taken all of their strange, halting conversation for Fawkes to read flesh into that sparse speech. _You and I are created for war. Our purpose is battle._

“She creates her own image. And fails to recognize the choices she makes as anything other than duty.” Charon’s lips thin, and Fawkes imagines that _this_ might be the core of his disagreement with Jinx, a lingering resentment at the woman’s inability to view her own sense of morality as anything other than a choice, a luxury that the contract-bound ghoul can ill afford.

“Ask about her father sometime.” When Fawkes opens his mouth, intending to ask why Charon cannot simply tell him about Jinx’s enigmatic father, the ghoul shakes his head with more force than Fawkes has hitherto seen. “Listen to what she says. Listen to what she _doesn’t_ say.” Charon looks at him, the shadows on his cadaverous features making his words into the omens of a foreboding specter. “She is a _child_ playing at being a fighter. She is a _child_ playing at being a hero.”

“She may yet grow into those roles,” Fawkes argues, thinking back to her pained declarations and her resolution to free Gob. “She has the heart—“

“I never claimed otherwise. But. She is _becoming_. Not being.” The last stream of words seem to exhaust Charon, the man’s voice grinding to a halt as he wets his lips with his glass of murky water. Even knowing the radiation is harmless for one like him, Fawkes wonders at Charon’s asceticism. He waits for more, hoping for some radiant insight that will illuminate all, but Charon is no longer forthcoming.

“Thank you for the conversation. This was most enlightening.” Fawkes dips his head in gratitude, dropping caps on the table to pay for the drinks.

Charon watches him, expression unreadable. Slowly, he raises one hand, tapping two fingers to his chest. Eyes locked with Fawkes, he then taps those fingers to his wrist. “You both wear them with pride.”

Confused, Fawkes mimics the gesture, pressing to his heart, then his tattered sleeve. “I fail to understa- oh.” He smiles crookedly, heat rising on his cheeks.  Uncertain of whether that was command or commendation, he simply dips his head in response.

Leaving the bar, two last thoughts roll through his mind.

She is learning her path.

…and she is still becoming.


	16. Galaxies In Her Eyes

Fawkes wakes up the next morning at Carol’s place, his feet dangling off the bed and with a neck cramp from contorting to fit the too-small mattress. Jinx is already suited up in her power armor, helmet tucked under one arm and grinning like a sunbeam in human form.

“Morning, sleepyhead. Made new friends?”

“I suppose so,” Fawkes admits, sitting up and rubbing behind his head in an effort to ease the ache. Dogmeat sniffs at him curiously, tail wagging. “Where to next, my friend?”

She puffs her cheeks ridiculously large before exhaling gustily. “Really _should_ swing by the Citadel… but wanted to do something nice first.” With a sideways glance, she elaborates. “Wanted to go to the Museum of Technology. Just to remind myself that there’s still—that there are nice things out there.” A cheeky grin. “And I think you’d like it too. We can visit the planetarium.”

Even if he weren’t interested in the museum himself, he’d go simply for the effect on Jinx’s enthusiasm. She chirps merrily through breakfast about the museum, the gathered artifacts of the past and the hope they hold for the future.

“Can you imagine?” she asks through a mouthful of stale cereal. “They have the resources to _bring the stars inside_. Just for _looking_ , just for _learning_.” Drumming her heels against her chair, she adds, “I would have _loved_ to live during those times.” A pause, then a crooked smile. “Well, before everything else hit.”

“It would be far better than scavenging the ruins for survival,” Fawkes allows.

A small smile, sad and wistful as a dying flame. “Not disagreeing. But—well, you probably know even more than I do from reading the terminal. There’s the way things are, the way they were, and the way they _should_ be. All very different.”

Looking at her, at her too-large eyes reflecting too-old pain, he wonders… “And do you think things will ever be the way they were, or should be?”

A long and thoughtful pause, with only her uneven crunching to break the silence. “Things might get back to the way they were—or pretty close—in a couple centuries. Depends on how much knowledge we reclaim, so maybe the Brotherhood’s got the right of it.” Jabbing her spoon at him, she continues. “Don’t know if they’ll ever reach the way they _should_ be, but that’s what I’m trying to do. Even if it’s just one thing at a time.”

 

* * *

 

After breakfast they re-enter the strange world of sun-drenched grit, only a short walk past the abandoned (or rather, _eradicated_ and empty) trenches to the Museum of Technology. Without Gob as a buffer, they fall into silence. For Fawkes’ part it would be an easy, companionable thing, except—

Well, Charon’s words.

She speaks of her father with love and sorrow. When she speaks of him at all. But just as she uses humor and smiles to plaster over her bleeding heart, what lurks beneath the filial piety? He cannot even read her face to determine whether she too is thinking beyond the immediate steps of their journey.

Pausing just outside the museum, she cautions that super mutants may be inside but again her warning turns out to be unnecessary. The empty halls echo with his footsteps, Dogmeat’s soft panting and her metal-clad steps punctuating his tread. She leads him up dusty stairs and through a mock demonstration vault, the endlessly looping recorded speech sending chills up his spine. If the same ice goes through her veins, she shows little sign of it. The few remaining displays catch his eye but he has little time to do more than skim the placards as she insistently tugs his hand.

“Okay, just through here—“ And she pauses, squeezing his arm and pressing her palm against the half-intact door. “Close your eyes?”

He looks down at her. Her face may not be visible, but her shoulder plates clank as she shrugs and he catches her toeing the floor. So he exhales slowly, closing his eyes and shutting himself in darkness. Her delighted giggle tells him he did the right thing, and she gently pulls forward. He takes slow, mincing steps, trying not to trip over the little wanderer. The air smells stale, but no more so than the rest of the museum, and a shift in sound quality lets him know they stepped into a large room. She releases his hands and he hears her pulling her helmet off, fumbling with metal fingers and setting it aside as she fiddles with something.

“Okay. Open your eyes.”

She stands in the center of the auditorium with her arms stretched out, mirroring the curve of this artificial sky. Her helmet rolls as she accidentally nudges it with a foot, but she remains too enraptured by the celestial wonder to mind its clang.

And it is _beautiful_ , Fawkes must admit. The projector is set to a slow cycle that spins the cosmos about them, allowing them to observe the annual heavenly progression at an abbreviated pace. Constellations whose names escape him, twinkling tapestries whose names may be long lost…

He thinks of Charon.

“Perhaps some of the older ghouls can help us reclaim these stars.”

“Yeah.” Her upturned face remains transfixed, but she reaches blindly to the side. Recognizing her need, he takes her hand, wrapping around the metal gauntlet. “To reclaim the stars—or rename them. Imagine, having the _time_ and the _resources_ —to not only master the earth, but to brave the void of space?” A tremor in her voice. “Not that the bombs—not that we were good guardians—but, oh _Fawkes_ —“

She wheels sharply, throwing her arms about him in a fierce embrace that staggers him back. Her shoulders heave as she weeps mad, frantic tears, muffling her sobs against his ribs.

“Jinx, what’s the matter?” he pleads, awkwardly placing one hand over her back. She only gives a choked gurgle, grip tightening as Dogmeat whines frantically by her heels. Realizing there won’t be any escape until she releases her emotions, he takes a step back, sitting on the edge of one of the low benches and letting her sprawl into his lap. Her armor pinches against him and digs into his bicep, but at least he no longer fears her collapsing to the floor.

Finally, she hiccups her way to silence, twisting aside so she sits next to him.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Fawkes. I swear I don’t normally break down this much.” Her eyes meet his, red-rimmed and glittering with reflected stars. Always apologizing, like when they were first leaving Raven Rock—and uneasily, he wonders who first told her she wasn’t good enough. “I guess my warranty expired. Might have to trade me in for a newer model.” Her lips turn up in mimicry of good humor, but her eyes still gleam.

“My friend, I would not trade you for the world. Nor all the stars in the sky,” he says slowly, cupping her hand—and this touch feels so strange, but then again he had licked nectar from her belly, so perhaps all their walls are tumbling down, ruins crumbling like their sun-starved past selves.

“Thank you.” She squeezes Dogmeat close, blotting her tears against the dog’s fur and smudging her face with dirt. “I used to… you know, the stars are gorgeous. But part of why I like them is because no matter where you are in the world, we all share the same sky.” Her hand sweeps out, painting unimaginable vistas. “It comforts me.” Another hiccup, and she plows ahead stubbornly. “Because when I was looking for my dad, at least I knew we were sleeping under the same sky. It made the world seem a little less big and scary.”

An opening, a chink in her armor of too-bright smiles and false laughter, if he dares to take it.

“And once you found your father? Was it everything you hoped for?”

Her lips twitch, hands fluttering like a hapless marionette. “You were talking with Charon,” she accuses.

“And you are not answering.”

She shakes her head, burying one hand in Dogmeat’s fur as she starts aggressively petting the dog. “My dad—“ Groaning, she shakes her head. “I don’t—huh. I don’t know if I feel comfortable talking about that.”

“Is this a wound that needs cleansing, or one that will heal on its own?” he asks, resting his elbows on his knees. He still holds her hand, but it’s a fragile grasp, one that can be easily broken at any time.

Biting her lip, she shakes her head. “I don’t know. I never—huh.” And she laughs, a brittle ghost-laugh as she turns her eyes on him, galaxies and nightmares reflecting in their depths. “You’re the first person to even ask. Anyone else it’s all ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ not…” Her voice peters out, and she slumps on herself, a rag doll with her hair flopping over one eye.

It is still so hard to speak. Every word is a minefield and he thinks back to her lockers of weapons, her security, her need to armor and protect herself against this world that still breaks her heart because she cannot stopper her emotions. If he does not _try_ , he does not deserve the title of ‘friend.’

“Please. If you wish to speak, I am here. If you wish to remain silent, I am still here.”

She gives a choked laugh, biting her lip. “I could love you, you know.” A hard swallow. “I just feel guilty. I love my dad.” A long silence. “But sometimes I… don’t. Does that make me a bad person?”

“We owe no one our emotions,” he says gently. “Least of all ourselves.”

“I mean, even _Butch_ loves his mama. And Amata loves her dad, even after his thugs went after us, and—sometimes I feel like such a terrible person. Such a terrible daughter.” Guilt lines her face, like veins beneath her skin as she stares up at him. Desperate, searching, and he just squeezes her hand, hoping this small contact is enough. “And my dad is—he’s so much better. He died trying to bring clean water to the wasteland. He left the vault to fulfill my mother’s dream. He held on to better days for so long, and danced with me, and still gave me all the best birthdays even though my mom _died_ to give me life…”

He hears Charon’s deep voice whispering in his ear. _“Listen to what she says. Listen to what she_ doesn’t _say.”_ And he starts to see the shape of her grief, the cadaver lying half-shrouded beneath a white cloth.

Words—and he thinks he begins to understand why she holds so much, why she’s so touch-starved. Because even if she keeps talking, trying to find the right things to say, as if she’ll somehow stumble across the secret words that rule the world and say the right thing at the right time, touch does not lie. It is nothing more than skin to skin and warmth, reaching past all the layers of dermis to flesh and blood and bone beneath, and nothing less than recognition of shared humanity and an attempt to protect one another from all the casual cruelty of the world. Because he doesn’t know what to say, he shifts hands, still clasping hers but wrapping his arm about her metal shell. The weight and pressure will have to be enough, her armor barring further contact. But she leans against him, bare cheek against his chest.

“I _should_ love him. He always taught me about trying to do my best. Sacrifice. Being willing to put aside selfish wants for the greater good. And I _do_ love him, I really do,” she hastens to add, as if afraid to critique too sharp. “And I know he loved me. But I wish… I wish he’d shown his love better.”

He does not know her father well enough to say anything else. So he just holds her, rocks, and stares at the star-lit ceiling above.


	17. Sanctuary

She blots her tears on an old bandanna before leaving, helmet locked back in place. One more barrier between herself and the world.

But she does not stop holding his hand. This makes walking awkward, and he knows that with her hand in his she cannot reach for her plasma rifle as easily, but he’s loathe to withdraw after this recent display. He consoles himself with the thought that Dogmeat and her Pip-Boy should alert them to danger before it becomes necessary.

Finally, after two more songs on the radio, she gently says, “You can let me go now.”

He’d thought this was for her sake. But he releases.

“We’ll be heading to the Citadel next. Brotherhood stronghold, so—well, Gallows and Three Dog’s broadcasts should warn them already, but this one guard at the gate is kind of an ass,” she says apologetically. “Just giving you fair warning.”

“Much appreciated.” Not that the hostility will be new, but the Brotherhood has much more firepower should things escalate. Gallows’ warning echoes in his ear, and he bites his tongue. “Underworld has been the most accepting place by far.”

“I like the ghouls. They don’t judge,” she says wistfully. “I mean, Winthrop wound me up a bit at first, but it was… nice. You know, to have someone who just felt comfortable joking around a bit. And Snowflake knows how to make a gal feel pretty.”

“Snowflake?”

“Yeah, the one ghoul with all the hair. Took over the bar when the previous owner, uh, well.” She starts coughing awkwardly. “Well, when the previous owner passed on. But Snowflake does real nice things with hair, but most of it’s not really practical for being out and about.” She shakes her head, patting the side of her hips, searching for nonexistent pockets before she remembers the armor. “Stylist. Not a barber.”

“I can’t imagine the ghouls give him much to work with.” Fawkes cannot help speculating if his attention to styling products was what allowed the ghoul to maintain his full head of hair. “Though what happened to the previous owner?”

Mock-cringing at him with her arms raised, she laughs. “Ooh, you just couldn’t let that one slide, could you? Um. Charon killed him.”

Fawkes stops still. “What?”

“I trust Charon when he says Ahzrukhal had it coming, but—uh, yeah. First thing he did when his contract passed over to me.” And she laughs again, but decidedly more brittle on the edges. “I guess I’m doing something right, since Charon didn’t blow _my_ brains out.”

“Were you expecting him to?” he asks, stomach roiling. He still does not understand Charon’s contract or the way Jinx carries her guilt like stones in her belly, but was she _hoping_ for death…?

“No.” A gusty sigh. “But then again, I wasn’t expecting him not to—“ She catches herself at that, reaching out to pat his back in a companionable manner that would be far more comforting if it weren’t for the current topic. “Well. That’s why you’re here then. Friend. Companion.” Her head tilts, and she chuckles darkly. “Morality chain for when I’m failing to do what’s right.”

“I trust your judgment.”

“Maybe I don’t trust mine.”

He reaches for her shoulder, lightly spinning her to face him. “Perhaps you should.”

“You’re sweet, but—unf. Maybe later.”

Three Dog interrupts with a loud howl and another tall tale of Jinx’s exploits, so she shakes herself off like a dog shedding water.

“Sorry for all the nattering, but let’s see if we can make it to the Citadel before dark.”

 

* * *

 

The metal walls of the citadel rise above the plains like a castle in the distance—perhaps the most apt analogy that Fawkes can think of as they come closer. The pseudo-medieval trappings of the armored knights and paladins do nothing to dispel that impression.

The paladin by the entrance wears no helmet, unlike his companions. An odd oversight, but it makes him immediately recognizable to Jinx as she waves a weary hand.

“Hey there, Bael.”

The blonde man stares at her before barking in laughter. “You! You’re back! But like a radroach, I guess you can survive anything.” He grins, sharp and feral, and Fawkes’ skin crawls at the sight. Dogmeat growls softly, hackles rising as the loyal canine positions himself between Jinx and the paladin. “Look, Elder Lyons and the others are in the science labs, talking about restarting the Purifier. You’d better join them.”

“Didn’t miss a beat, did they?” Jinx sighs, crossing her arms like a barrier. “And nice to see you too, doorman.” She starts walking past him, but when Fawkes starts following, Bael extends his arm to bar the way, tapping the flat of his fist to Fawkes’ belly.

“No mutants in the Citadel. We have to kill enough of those monsters already.”

Jinx wheels in place, pivoting so sharply that her boots dig into the ground as Fawkes flinches.

“Have you even _listened_ to Three Dog? Or Gallows? Or, y’know, taken a _look_ at Fawkes here?” Her arm snakes about his waist, squeezing tight. “He’s _not_ one of the hostiles out there. He’s my _friend_ and if you don’t let him in, _I’m_ not going in.”

Bael’s lips twist into a sneer, eyes narrowing. “You’d really throw away your father’s project for the sake of some big green dick?”

Jinx is a blur. One moment, her arm around his waist—next moment she releases, and his skin feels so cold—then light glinting off her armor, green energy crackling from her back as she twists—from the hips, bringing all of her frame into it—and then her fist—

_THWACK!_

Her fist collides with Bael’s jaw, knocking the man backwards. The other paladins raise their rifles and Fawkes grips his laser, their impending death ringing in his ears…

“ _C’mon_ , you heard what he was saying? _I_ still know the code to the purifier, and if you are all going to _shoot me_ for taking offense at what he said about my friend, you can all go to—!” she screams, only to be interrupted by a voice over the intercom.

“Jinx, calm down. Stand down, paladins. Our friend the Wanderer deserves better.”

“Gallows!” Abruptly, Jinx starts laughing, bewildered mirth sliding in place of the rage. “Good thing you were watching the monitors.”

“Bad thing Bael was on duty.”

“She broke mah toof!” Bael moans, crimson spraying from his mouth as he clutches his face.

“Should’ve been wearing your helmet, pretty boy. Come on in, Jinx. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Jinx gives Bael an obnoxious raspberry, but does not actually flip him the bird as she walks past. Hesitantly, eyeing the remaining paladins, Fawkes follows.

“Was that worth it?” he whispers, trying to pitch his voice low.

“Dunno yet, but it _felt_ real good.” Her tone betrays her worry, but she flashes an overly-cheery double thumbs-up. “I swear, _every_ time I’ve run into Bael… I know I shouldn’t have hit him. I should have tried talking, or gotten on the intercom. I should have kept my temper, but,” her head tilts in his direction, “it wasn’t _me_ he was digging into this time.” Was it? Fawkes thinks back, wondering who Bael was truly targeting with that crude accusation. “And I’m really getting sick of people telling me what I ‘should’ do. Especially from someone who obviously thought I was dead because one _stupid_ little girl couldn’t possibly do what the entire Brotherhood failed to do, right?”

They make their way through an immense courtyard, where paladins and recruits train with fists and rifles. The walls about, coupled with all the unfriendly looks directed his way, give him a dizzying sensation of being back in his cell.

But there is sun on his face and Jinx at his side. He tries to stay focused on her.

“Why do you let them control you so?” he asks, hoping to let the others’ scrutiny slide off his back.

“Because of my dad. Because the purifier was his dream. And the Brotherhood’s the only group who can help make it happen.” She leads him to one of the buildings in the outer rings, pushing the door open and standing to the side to let Fawkes pass. Ducking his head and stepping over Dogmeat as he enters the building, he’s surprised at how cool it feels. An active air conditioning system? Jinx continues, oblivious to his thoughts. “And maybe getting the purifier up and running will help.”

He swallows, mouth too dry and tongue suddenly too large and clumsy for his mouth. “Will it help you forgive him?”

“Do you think I need to?” The door swings shut behind her but rather than continue down the hall, she stands with her gaze averted, shoulders tight and fists clenched.

“No one ‘needs’ our forgiveness. It neither an obligation nor a burden lightly stowed.” She looks so small in her metal shell and he wishes at least her helmet was off. It would make it so much easier to read her, to try and understand the whirlwind of her heart beneath her smiling mask. She wears so many roles—hero, daughter, friend—that he wonders if she ever forgets to set them aside and stand free.

Gently, he continues. “It sounds like your father was a good man. And if our parents are good, we love them. It is natural.” Even if ‘we’ is from reading and literature, as he lost all memory of his own family. Perhaps he himself had been a father before undergoing the FEV treatment. “But as we grow older and gain more understanding, we start to question them. Eventually—if we’re lucky—we learn to forgive them.”

She laughs, bitter like the last dregs of coffee. “My _name_ means bad luck.”

“Not all parents deserve forgiveness.” Now that he’s started, the words come more easily. At least she’s responding, better than dark silence. Not as good as her star-drunk dancing and her mirth floating free into the heavens, but he vows to take her back to the roof of the Megaton house as soon as they’re home again. “The ends do not always justify the means.” And it shocks him to realize that he means _home_. For both of them.

“No. But I should at least see this through.” Her eyes glow in the dim, and she starts briskly down the hallway. “Daddy dearest didn’t raise a quitter. And the folks at Megaton and Big Town and everywhere else can sure use the clean water.”

Down the corridor, then through a heavy door that clanks as she pushes it—and into an immense chamber, centered about a massive robot whose inanimate presence nonetheless dominates the room. His steps slow, staring at the steel monstrosity, but Jinx’s pace quickens and he is forced to follow. They descend the metal stairs, Dogmeat bounding at their heels, to meet a cluster of armor-clad figures and people in robes.

“All I’m saying is that the longer we sit here, the longer we’re giving them to shore up their defenses,” argues an armored blonde woman.

The man facing her scowls, enhancing the deep lines of his wrinkled features. “I’ve already told you that we have barely enough manpower to shore up the Citadel—“

“So you’re just going to wait until they decide that we’re next on the list?” she challenges. “If the Pride goes in now, we might have a chance!”

“And if you go in now, and we lose, what of the war?”

She holds her hands loosely behind her, gaze fixed firmly on his. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t _have_ to like it Sarah. You just have to follow orders.” The man’s stern tone changes mid-syllable when he catches sight of Jinx. “Jinx! Your search for the GECK went well, I hope?” Despite his jovial attitude, his eyes remain cold. Calculating. Fawkes catches Sarah wincing, biting her lip as the attention swings so suddenly between the two women.

Jinx chuckles awkwardly, scuffing one boot along the floor. “Well, sort of. I found the GECK…”

“Excellent!” he beams, rubbing his hands together. “With that, we hold the key to keeping the Enclave from controlling the purifier!”

Holding up a hand to stall him, Jinx cautions, “Well, it’s not quite that simple—”

His eyes widen with alarm and his speech turns clipped once more. “What do you mean? Explain, please!”

“How about you let me _talk_ for a change?” Jinx counters, still standing on the last step to maximize her height. Fawkes reads tension in her shoulders and the jutting of her chin. “Fawkes here helped me grab the GECK, but the Enclave took it when they abducted me to Raven Rock.” Hastily, she adds, “Oh, and by the way, I blew up the base. Not that anyone seems to care, but I did the best I could. Even though I _don’t_ answer to you. I’m not Brotherhood, _Elder Lyons_.” And even with her helmet on, Fawkes knows her smiling demeanor has vanished, sizzling away like water on a hotplate.

Likewise, his kind demeanor evaporates. Eyes narrowed dark and serpentine, he snaps, “When we’re done, I may just string you up from your precious purifier. Clearly we need to revise our strategy.”

Sarah, however, lights up like a firework. “If the Enclave has the GECK, there is nothing to keep them from activating the purifier! They’ll figure out the code eventually.”

He nods decisively. “Let’s move while we can.”

“Send the Pride in! If we move now, we can do it,” Sarah exclaims, thumping her fist against her palm with excitement.

Fawkes listens as they discuss weapons, tactics, movement—but Jinx stays still, just giving a brittle laugh as she crosses her arms and slumps against the railing. But she does not leave.

“Time to finish up where it all began, Fawkes,” she says softly. “Bringing better days to the wasteland.”

“Have you thought of what you’ll do after this mission?” he asks, troubled by the dull fatality in her voice.  

Shrugging, she rolls her shoulders back. “No. Nothing’s going to change, not really—not for me.” She drums her fingers against her arms, adding, “Even with clean water, there’s still raiders. Still slavers. Gotta take down Evergreen Mills and Paradise Falls. And even after those two nests get taken care of… well, there’s still all the isolated raider gangs. There’s the super mutants. There’s feral ghouls and broken families and Big Town and a whole settlement full of children who’ve never had parents.”  She extends her hand, fingers futilely clutching something she never had as she stumbles over the words. “The world is _broken_ , Fawkes. All I can do is try and keep the sharp edges away from people. Because we’re all guilty of all the good we do _not_ do,” she adds bitterly, sweeping her palm to encompass the knights, the facility, the robot—

And Fawkes thinks of Three Dog’s announcements.

All the things a hero has done for the Wasteland.

 _A_ hero. A teenage girl and her faithful dog.

Not a fortress of armed and armored soldiers hoarding prewar technology and the resources that could revive humanity.

And who will never truly accept Jinx as one of their own if Bael’s little display by the gate and Elder Lyons’ dismissive commands mean anything.

As if on cue, Sarah strides over, a glossy smile on her face. “Before we get started, I wanted to let you know that my father and I have been talking. The Pride and I have decided that after all you’ve survived, you’ve earned the right to be an honorary member of Lyon’s Pride. So congratulations!”

“Oh really? Did everyone else have to kill a behemoth and search for a forgotten vault without back-up?” Jinx asks drily, shifting one foot back on the stairs to gain a little extra height.

Sarah falters, but continues gamely. “Membership comes with some privileges, including power armor. You want the full suit,” she pauses, eyes uncertainly flicking over Jinx’s Tesla armor, “or the recon armor?”

Jinx drums her fingers against the railing, but doesn’t take long to reach her decision. “Recon armor.”

 _Is this how a soul is sold, swallowing one’s pride for gear?_ he wonders.

Perhaps not. Jinx’s casual, almost bored tone implies practicality rather than coveting.

But Sarah remains oblivious, or simply chooses to ignore it. “All right, here you go. I hope it fits.” She smiles, though it looks strained. “So you think you can handle this?”

“Of course I can,” Jinx retorts, tapping her plasma rifle.

“Now that’s what I like to hear soldier!” In her enthusiasm, Sarah completely fails to note the tremor in Jinx’s hands. Fawkes bites his tongue. “You ready? Once we move out, we won’t be coming back for a while.”

“Let me just drop some gear off. Fawkes and I can use any spare bunks you have after the mission,” she says. “But we’ll be ready soon.”

“Understood. Hurry back.”

“I would be honored if I may escort you to the dormitory,” says an unfamiliar voice. Fawkes and Jinx turn to notice a dark-skinned woman with short-cropped graying hair. Like so many of the other warriors, she wears power armor, though with a star insignia across the shoulders to denote rank.

Jinx cocks her head to the side, hesitant but polite as she asks “I’m sorry, but… forgive me. Have we met?” Her fingers pick up tempo against the railing, betraying her agitation.

“Not since you were a child, Jennifer.”

Her shoulders immediately tighten back. “I’m Jinx. Only my dad called me Jennifer.”

“I apologize for misspeaking.” And Fawkes is surprised to find he believes her, the woman dipping her head deferentially. “I am Star Paladin Cross, and I had the honor of knowing both your parents. Regarding your father—“ Cross pauses to lock eyes with Jinx, shaping the words carefully as they leave her mouth. “He was… a noble man. I was saddened to hear of his passing. But from what I’ve heard, he died with honor. He died for you. I only pray that my own death has such meaning.”

Jinx chuckles, short and bitter. “I would rather he had lived for me. I loved him, and won’t ever forget him.” ‘Forget’ is so close to ‘forgive,’ yet meanings apart.

 As if reading Jinx’s pain, Cross smiles sadly, her eyes glittering with reflected depths. “And so our deeds are carried on through our sons and our daughters. Continue to remember him fondly, continue to tell his story, and continue to do his work—though from what Three Dog says, you may already be mastering a greater burden.”

“Oh come on, Cross,” Jinx says lightly. “Haven’t you heard not to trust everything you hear on the radio?”

“I have also heard that humility is a mark of excellent character.” At Fawkes’ startled laugh, she adds, “As is a sense of humor. I hope you will not judge us all by Bael’s actions.”

Not that Bael had been the only one—but Fawkes accepts the olive branch gratefully. “It is a pleasure to meet one who will not judge me by my skin.”

“Nay. The content of your character, good man. Fawkes, is it?” She smiles at his nod. “I can lead you to one of the little-used rooms. It should be sufficiently out of the way for your purposes.”

Fawkes is glad for her guidance, the gleaming hallways no less daunting the second time through. She is even helpful enough to point out the communal kitchen and the rec room, though Fawkes doubts he will be invited to play cards with any of the Brotherhood. Jinx, perhaps, but not him.

“This was originally an office, but we had to refit it for our needs—a little small, but it should be sufficient,” Cross says serenely.

There are just two bunk beds with lockers at their base. Jinx laughs, silver peals in contrast to the earlier acidity. “Ha. I call dibs on the top bunk.”

He chuckles at that, placing their nonessential supplies into a footlocker. “I shall endure the disappointment.”

“I also have one of your mother’s possessions to give you.” Cross tilts her palms up apologetically at Jinx’s rapid head-turn. “She loaned it to me long ago, and I was unable to return it to your father. I have kept it in her memory since, and I hope it brings you some small pleasure.”

“No. Not _small_.” And Jinx’s eyes must be wet and crystal beneath the helmet, but with it on, only the quiver in her voice betrays her emotion. “Really—that’s really good. I don’t have anything of hers, anymore. And…” She starts hiccupping, raising her hands to shield her face in embarrassment.

“It is fine, Jinx.” Cross reaches up, gently removing the young woman’s helmet with practiced fingers. “We forget to allow our emotions to walk free and they devour us from within.”

“Mine are walking all _over_ the place then,” Jinx mumbles, tears dripping down blotched cheeks.

“Your mother was the same way. She cared deeply for the world, and would break her heart for what broke others’. A soft heart in this cruel world requires greater strength than can ever be spoken.” Lightly, she reaches under Jinx’s chin, tilting her upward and addressing her with sincerity. “We may have spoken much of your father’s mission, but I see you as your mother’s daughter.”

Jinx’s lips twitch into a ragged smile. “Please. After—after we kick the Enclave out of the Memorial, can you tell me about my mom? I’d like to know more about her.”

“It would be a privilege to speak of the greatest woman I have ever met.”


	18. Alpha and Omega

She never feels at home here in the Citadel, not really—no matter how many games of cards she plays with the Pride, no matter that she walks around in power armor or tells stories to Maxwell because nobody _else_ pays attention to a lonely kid here—even if the hallways kinda-sorta make her think of being back in Vault 101. But whenever the walls press in too close and she starts feeling the tight fight-or-flight tingle in her chest, struggling to breathe like a diver too long submerged, she can run outside to gulp the air. Because she could _drown_ in that darkness, sink to forgotten depths and stay there until the nightmares consume her bones.

But they won’t be here much longer. Even though she’s looking forward to reminiscing with Cross (and Star Paladin Cross is nice, so _nice_ , warmer than Sarah and without the darkness haunting Gallows like a hungry ghost) she’s mostly looking forward to finally taking down the Enclave at the Memorial and activating the purifier.

Alpha and omega. The beginning and the end.

She’s listened to the tape, over and over—her mother’s voice, her dream. Trying to imagine what she must have looked like. Did she wear her hair neat and prim, tied high in a bun while working? Or was she too excited over their work to bother, simply looping it through a rubber band and wincing when she had to comb out all the tangles? And her dad—she’d never known Dad to be playful, to be, well, _frisky_. And maybe it should gross her out, listening to what was probably the prelude to making _her_ (because she checked the times and the calendar and she might have actually been _conceived_ right after that tape marked ‘Better Days’) and that was probably why Dad never shared that tape with her, even though he shared so many other things—

\--then again, Dad had never shared the truth about the Wasteland with her either.

Revelations 21:6. Alpha and omega, beginning and the end. It echoes like a litany, a balm for her jangling nerves, and a sick sense of fatality twists through her gut. Everyone claims her destiny lies in that chamber.

Some of it must show on her face when she finally faces Sarah again, but where Fawkes has been kind enough not to point it out, Sarah grins and tries to make light of it.

“Now, don’t be nervous. You have the entire Pride backing you up, plus this tin can.”

“Doesn’t Fawkes count for something?” she asks mechanically, more out of habit—because she can’t let a good zing go by, not when Fawkes is still trying so hard to fit in—than true enthusiasm.

“Ah—him too.” Sarah shoots the meta human an uncertain look, but Fawkes remains bland and inscrutable. “Just stay safe until we reach the purifier. You’re no good to us if you’re dead.”

 _But once we’re done with the purifier, I’m fair game_. She doesn’t have to go far to read into the unspoken, and not for the first time, wonders why everyone assumes _she_ knows the code, and why no one has ever asked what it _is_. Sharing the information would mean that if she died, either by a stray bullet or maybe finally chowing down on something her food sanitizer couldn’t scrub, someone else could take over her father’s work.

Then again, it also makes her the perfect sacrificial lamb should anything go wrong in that room.

Especially if her code’s wrong.

Because daddy-dearest in his infinite wisdom (with all his unspoken words etched razor-sharp across her heart) had never told her the code. She just realized that it had to be three digits—and there’ve only been three numbers that her father ever considered worth repeating over and over, each reiteration washing it fresh across her mind. The many times he’s spoken, whispered, breathed and prayed from that one passage.

Just like everyone else, Elder Lyons only wants her for the code in her head. But at least the Brotherhood’s a better option than Enclave, and she can’t even blame Sarah, not really. Not when it took her own father’s death before she realized she could step out from his shadow, or even recognize the chains that bind.

Briskly, Sarah brings Jinx to the rest of the Pride. Jinx stands behind Gallows, dipping their heads at one another by way of greeting.

“Okay, let’s go over it one more time. We can’t get into the facility if those energy fields are up, so we are on fire support.” Jinx knows there’s more to the plans, but really—it boils down to one thing. Shoot at the Enclave, try not to get hit. Peeking at Fawkes—and poor Fawkes makes such a target, without any protection save his own preternaturally toughened hide—she wishes they had stayed in Megaton long enough to make him some sort of armor.

Then it’s go time, moving at a loping, ground-devouring pace with Liberty Prime stomping beside them. She never thought she’d actually _see_ the robot working, not soon, but the Brotherhood has really pulled out all the stops for this mission. The thought tastes sour in the back of her mouth, another reminder of all the Brotherhood _could_ do with all its tech, armor, and ammo, with the well-trained men and women jogging alongside her, with the robot and their scientists and—

She cannot dwell on that.

Not with the air dark with smoke and radiation, the sizzle of laser and missiles striking all about her, dull impacts reverberating through her feet as she struggles across the uneven footing with but one thought in her mind.

 _Keep moving_.

Stopping is death.

Stopping is stagnation.

_Stagnation is death._

So she runs and guns, ducking behind abandoned automobiles and fallen debris when necessary. Without speaking, without even really thinking, she takes cover with Fawkes. When she pauses to breathe, she’s not sure whether it was because this was the closest place to hide or because Fawkes’ calm is a steadying beacon in the midst of the storm. He gives her a glance, sidelong and brief, lips mouthing words but she can’t hear him above the battle. She knows him well enough to understand anyway.

_How are you faring?_

She grins, forgetting her helmet, then chuckles and shrugs. Because really, what else can she say?

 _Thank you_. For asking, for caring. But this is not the time to elaborate, not the time to peel away her layers and bare her heart. Not until the purifier’s secure. So she pops from her hidey-hole, firing at Enclave to clear their path. Liberty Prime takes care of most of the fighters, so really they’re just mopping after the robot, but the sooner they go through the sooner she can lay down her father’s burden.

This would be so much _easier_ if she just took a Mentat, her pulse quickening at the thought. Just one, just something to clear her head and help her think more clearly. But that’s a dangerous path, no less so than using Psycho for the edge or Med-X for when the pain becomes too hard. And less value than Med-X, really, because the boundary is so much thinner between ‘need’ and ‘addiction,’ and she may not ‘need’ it, not really, but for this battle every bit helps, right?

She promised Charon, and that promise _means_ something.

Never again will she compromise her principles for the sake of safety.

This is such a different fight than what she’s used to. Liberty Prime overlooks all, a colossus striding across the ruins and blasting at Enclave soldiers. It disables the energy fields one by one, tumbling them down like wheat before the reaper. So much technology on both sides, lasers and plasma like fireworks, blossoming light and death and fury in their wake. If she had but half the fighters currently wasting their lives against one another here, she could _obliterate_ Evergreen Mills, raze the entire complex to the ground instead of taking huddled pot-shots at the raiders prowling its edges. If she only had the Pride (she thinks, stepping over the charred remnants of a soldier caught in the blast of an exploding car) they could take Paradise Falls and rip out the beating heart of the slave trade.

Never again will she let her fears control her.

She is storming the Enclave-controlled Jefferson Memorial following a giant robot and accompanied by an intelligent super mutant; what could be more surreal? How can nightmares be any stranger than reality? The only difference is the _fear_.

She’s _done_ being afraid.

If only ‘being’ is as easy as thinking.

It’s déjà vu, slipping through the side door with Sarah as the rest of the Pride sets up outside to guard the entrance. If she were on her own, or maybe just with Fawkes and Dogmeat, she’d try sneaking down the passage with a Stealth Boy to scout the area. But the sneaky approach was never Sarah’s style; that was always Gallows’ job. So instead she hurtles down the corridor with her guns blazing, screaming and Jinx has no choice but to follow, green blasts of plasma searing through any foolish enough to get in her way. It helps that her scavenged ( _stolen_ , whispers the stubborn part of her that still remembers just a few months ago when stripping a corpse for loot made her lunch rise up, and when she saved bottle caps off her cola to add to her dad’s funny collection, not because it was _currency_ ) Tesla armor was originally Enclave make, so she gets that extra second of hesitation from an oncoming soldier. She regrets blasting at the ones who pause.

Not enough to refrain from exploiting their momentary confusion, but enough of a twinge to hope she’s not completely changed from the altruistic little girl she’d once been.

When Sarah leads towards the rotunda, Jinx shakes her head.

“What about the tunnels?”

Sarah responds swiftly. “Fawkes, can you and Dogmeat guard the tunnel entrance? We don’t need Enclave getting the drop on us.”

He glances at Jinx for confirmation. She gives a quick nod and he turns. It takes a little more convincing for Dogmeat, who whines in confusion before Jinx gently says “Go take care of Fawkes. For me.”

Then she follows Sarah back into the chamber where she watched her father die.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting back here. Grief, perhaps. Or rage. Something other than bone-crushing weariness, especially when an oily voice calls out in greeting.

“You again,” Colonel Autumn sneers, standing between two fully armored soldiers while still wearing that ridiculous coat. Jinx wonders why he didn’t bother dressing more appropriately for the battlefield. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You and your ilk seem hell-bent on destroying everything our government has worked to achieve. There’s nothing to stop me from killing you this time.” Smiling coldly, he purrs, “Let’s end this.”

Quickly, before Sarah can interject, Jinx says, “Look, I don’t want to fight you—“ because war never changes _but people can_ and maybe if they could just _talk_ for a change they can make the world a better place because _people can change_ and if the Enclave could join forces with the Brotherhood maybe they could do _so much_ —

But he laughs instead, raising his pistol. “You don’t have to. Just stand there. It’ll be over quicker, and might even be less painful for you.”

A single shot from her plasma rifle turns him to a puddle of green goo, and she and Sarah take out the remaining soldiers in short order. Because she might be naïve, she might be trusting, but Jinx has learned _not_ to put away her weapons during a conversation.

“Egads. I’m wearing full _Tesla Armor_ and he thought he could take me?” she mutters.

Sarah snorts. “I’ve heard Enclave has funny ideas on women’s roles. Or he might’ve just been an idiot.”

“The two can overlap.”

“Well, that takes care of that. By now, the Pride should be mopping up whatever opposition is left outside. Let’s get this room secured,” Sarah says, sparing a moment to grin at Jinx. For just one moment, Jinx forgets that Sarah’s blonde and not brunette, and her heart aches. But the radio mounted to Sarah’s gear crackles to life, quelling the bitter nostalgia.

It’s Li, crisp as always. “We have encountered a serious problem. The facility has been severely damaged during the fighting. Some of it looks accidental, some of it may have been sabotage. There is pressure building up in the holding tanks. It has to be released now or else the whole facility could explode!” Jinx imagines the tidy woman’s hands shaking, all her anxiety channeled to rage as she spits out the command. “To release the pressure, you’re going to have to turn the purifier on. Do you understand me? It has to be turned on _now_. If I am reading this right, I am afraid there are lethal levels of radiation inside the chamber.”

A moment’s pause—less than a heartbeat— and Li collects herself enough to continue.

“I am sorry, I wish there was another way, but if I am reading this right, this has to be done now or else the damage will be catastrophic.”

 _Is she sorry_? Jinx immediately tamps it down as cruel and unnecessary speculation. She may not _like_ Li, but she respects her. Even if she doubts it’s mutual.

Sarah’s shoulders slump, staring at the purifier through the glass walls. “Well, so much for celebrating. One of us is going to have to go in there and turn the damned thing on. And whoever does it isn’t coming back out.” Exhaling long and slow, she adds, “Not exactly how I imagined going out, you know?”

“Nor I,” Jinx mutters, thoughts already wheeling.

 _I’m supposed to be a_ hero _at heart, not—for the greater good. Even if it hurts_. And she hears Charon’s gravel voice in the back of her head, the unpleasant advice that she always imagines coming from _him_ even though she knows full well it’s her own cynicism. _And if I don’t do it, your father will find a way to pin blame on me._

“So what should we do? Draw straws?” Sarah’s eyebrows furrow together.

“I’ll do it. I’ll start the purifier.” The words are abrupt and choppy, though Jinx tries to pretend they’re without hesitation, with strength of steel to back her intent. If Fawkes were here…

If Fawkes were here, this would be a different story. But Li said it had to be _now_.

“You’re going to have to be quick about it. If the radiation is bad enough, you won’t have much time.” Sarah leans forward, before Jinx can react, and squeezes her fiercely about the shoulders, bumping her forehead against the cool metal of the smaller woman’s helmet. “I won’t forget what you’ve done here. No one will. Thank you.”

Prying off her helmet and fumbling for the bottle of Rad-X that she keeps in her armor’s compartment, Jinx pauses just long enough to spare a crooked smile. “Hey. I am the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end.” She dry-swallows the last three tablets rattling at the bottom of the bottle, marching into the chamber and dropping her helmet as the door slides shut behind her. Wrapping her mortality about her like a cloak, shivering in its tattered embrace, she already feels the itching crawling through her skin even though she _knows_ it’s just psychosomatic terror.

 _Beginning and the end. So I will die where I was conceived_ …

The numbers feel thick and clumsy beneath her fingers, her gloves meaning she has to be careful to not accidentally jab any of the neighboring buttons on the pad. It’s still easier than typing or picking locks.

_2-1-6_

She turns to give one last cheeky thumbs-up, trying to go out with a grin, and spots Fawkes staring at her through the glass, eyes wide and jaw hanging and _oh god_ this is just like being back in Vault 87 again, places switched, but he won’t be freeing her this time—

Her hand presses to the glass, though her vision’s all blurred. Stupid tears. They never did her any good anyway.

His palm aligns with hers, and she _knows_ it’s just a fancy, but his warmth tingles through her, unless that’s the radiation—

And as she falls down that spider-strand slip between living and dying, vision bright with light, she wishes she tried kissing him.

Just once.


	19. Monsters Don't Cry

He roars as radiation floods the chamber, scraping his nails bloody as he struggles with the glass panel separating them. Sarah Lyons tries grabbing his hand, ordering him to stand down, but he pushes her away. Lethal levels of radiation in there now, Jinx slumping, cut like a flower, and he _will not_ let this happen—

\--but Sarah falls too, and Dogmeat—where is Dogmeat?

It is quiet, the silence of a prison cell without even the static crackle of an ancient terminal to ward off his demons. His animal hindbrain growls, dark and hungry, rattling off ancient chains as he finally pries the door open, wedging himself into the chamber beside the crumpled little wanderer.

Her hair’s so bright, her eyes shut—she can’t be dead. She’s dreaming. Or he’s dreaming.

His thoughts chase one another in a serpentine tangle as he leans close, straining to catch her breathing.

She _has_ to survive this.

He’s not sure how long it is until the paladins arrive, asking him questions, speaking in tongues, but Fawkes cannot understand them. There _is_ no Fawkes, just a dumb beast lost and adrift.

Eventually Dogmeat comes, bounding to sniff Jinx and releasing a mournful howl, shoving his head under Fawkes’ hand. Mechanically, body operating under ancient principles (warmth, softness—touch it, pet it, take comfort while you can) he strokes the dog’s fur. Gallows stands before him (and when did Gallows come in?), demanding “What happened?”

He needs to find his words, master speech once again—because that is all that separates him from the brutes and behemoths, the only thing that will save him, because Jinx cannot speak _for_ him now. So he tries to explain what happened, but the syllables stumble out drunkenly. Jinx in the dome, the radiation, the—

“The purifier’s active,” Cross says quietly, and he blinks at her, dazed and wondering when _she_ came in. The paladins in their helmets blur with one another, so he tries to focus on the familiar. At least Cross is friendlier than Gallows. She kneels besides Fawkes, pressing her hand on his shoulder. “Li was saying the radiation was lethal. But she’s alive.”

“Mutation,” he whispers. One of the Brotherhood knights flinches back and Fawkes smiles weakly, forgetting how ghastly it must look across his monstrous features. “Luck.” He wonders if she’s still carrying Timebomb’s lucky 8-ball. “Karma.” Because they’re all slaves to the wheel, universal and recurrent. “Jinx went in.” And he’d tried freeing her like she’d freed him. If he hadn’t listened to Sarah, if he could have taken her place, as with the GECK…

If piled upon if, and no resolution down that path. So he corrals his fears to the present, listening instead to the paladins muttering amongst themselves.

“The purifier’s running, but Sarah’s out too,” Gallow observes, and Fawkes imagines the man glaring accusation.

“The doors were imperfectly sealed,” Fawkes says numbly. “She was unconscious _before_ I opened the doors to reach Jinx.” That is important, not just because it shields him from the Brotherhood’s suspicions but because Jinx would hate him for invalidating her sacrifice. Never mind that he was clawing at the doors even before Sarah succumbed.

He cannot think of the greater good. He only knows his preferences, and he _prefers_ a world where Jinx numbers among the living even if it means sacrificing another.

 _‘And if that meant sacrificing more than one, a life for a life? If that meant two? Would you KILL for me?_ ’ he imagines her demanding, hands on her hips and eyes broken-glass sharp. He’s already killed _for_ her, facing the Enclave and the raiders and Talon Company, but there is guilt now. He has preferences, and is ashamed.

Everyone talks, and talks, and talks, words washing over him like waves, all sound and fury signifying nothing. Finally, Cross overrides the useless susurrus with a firm, “Take them back to the Citadel for medical treatment.”

“Both…?”

“Yes, _both_ ,” snarls Gallows, spinning sharply to face the offending paladin. “Jinx is part of the Pride.”

“I can carry her,” Fawkes offers quickly, his primal side howling that if the Brotherhood separates them he will never see her again. “She has no wounds. I will do her no injury by moving her.”

“A mutant in the Citadel?”

“I vouch for him,” Cross says smoothly.

Gallows laughs, razor-edged and slicing up Fawkes’ spine. “ _My_ concern. I’ll keep an eye on him.” But at least it’s better than being banned from the Citadel.

He knows he is on probation, he knows they are watching him for the slightest of suspicions, but they allow him to take her, cradling her in his arms, still clad in that ridiculous Tesla shell that utterly failed to prevent the radiation from taking her. He keeps his steps slow, deliberately making sure not to outpace the paladins who march in a regimented, brisk formation so unlike Jinx’s fast-paced saunter. Cross walks next to him, carrying Sarah Lyons just as easily as he carries Jinx.

“Our doctors are good. They will care for both women—and perhaps add some upgrades, if you think them appropriate,” Cross speaks.

It takes several moments to realize the question buried in those soft words. “Upgrades?”

“We don’t know yet if she’ll survive—or the long-term effects of the radiation—but we can improve her chances. I myself am a cyborg, and the techniques have improved considerably since my own alteration.”

“Should not that be something Jinx decides for herself?”

Cross nods, eyes soft with regret. “Yes. But with her inability to speak for herself, and the fact that these modifications can enhance her odds—“

He swallows, vats of green FEV and wastelanders tossed screaming into the dip hovering in the back of his mind. Is it really any more justifiable because Jinx cannot scream and the Brotherhood has already done it to at least one willing test subject?

“What would you _do_ to her?” Fawkes asks, tongue thick and heavy.

“For her immediate survival? Purify her radiation. Lots of Rad-Away, though there’s a biologic agent that we may introduce to allow the body to cleanse itself. I have it myself, and it essentially lowers radiation levels over time,” Cross continues, serene and hardly showing the effort of carrying an armor-clad woman her own size. “Antibiotics to keep infection from settling in. And—if you think she’d approve—some cybernetic upgrades, since she seems so prone to jumping off buildings.”

Fawkes falters, staring at Cross. “You _knew_ about that?”

Cross chuckles, though her lips twist down. “Yes. Broke her limbs simply so Moira could study critical injuries.” She pauses, exhaling slowly. “I regret not finding her sooner. I do not know if she still seeks death, but perhaps we may guard her from her own folly.”

“But if she does not _consent_ —“

“Does she trust you to make decisions in her stead?”

 _To tell her when her path strays, not…_ “But it is _her_ bodily autonomy.”

“Yes. But—and this is _my_ opinion as a Star Paladin, not necessarily that of the Elder,” she adds, giving Fawkes a firm look, “that we should attempt to restore her to _better_ than she was. I know Elder Lyons already discussed medical enhancements for his daughter, and I see no reason why Jinx should not receive the same benefits.” She moves on before he can process all the implications behind that statement. “I admit I am hardly unbiased, having undergone the procedure myself and with my affection for her parents. But I trust you to seek her best interests, particularly as you have held her company for longer than I. And if you believe she would prefer us to simply nurse her to health, we will stand by that.”

He’s only known her for a few days. A few days, and to have this decision thrust upon him? Even if Cross does not _intend_ to pressure him, the responsibility weighs heavy on his shoulders. And he could lift an automobile aside but cannot set this down.

“I still do not believe it is my decision to make.”

“Then whose?”

He opens his mouth, but shuts it wordlessly. This argument will only lead in circles. “Would your Elder be willing to attempt this?”

“If not, then I will convince him.” She smiles, though wanly. “She is a hero to the Wasteland, and a valuable asset not only to the Brotherhood, but the Wastes as a whole. She can wander the paths we cannot tread.”

“She is a child.”

Chuckling, Cross arches an eyebrow at him. “Even by prewar standards, she is above the age of majority. Young, but hardly a child. And the Wastes force greater maturity upon us all.” Her brow lowers, voice soft as she continues. “I understand your desire to protect, but you may do a greater disservice by weighing her youth so heavily against her.”

And he thinks of Jinx walking upstairs, breasts flashing as she pulls her shirt over her head—

Blushing furiously, he turns his face aside. “We may discuss those options.”

Mercifully, she leaves him be for the rest of the march to the Citadel.

 

* * *

 

Into the Citadel, then to the sickbay, where Jinx and Sarah are briefly hidden behind screens and undressed, then presented again hooked up to IV ports and more monitoring devices than Fawkes can identify. A flurry of doctors and medical attendants surround the two women, but the brisk, dark-haired woman in scrubs is obviously in charge. She gives Fawkes a glare when he dares to hover too close to Jinx (so small and crumpled, a rag doll lying limp against the white sheets), snapping “Get that mutant out of here.” Dogmeat apparently escapes notice, having promptly hidden himself beneath the bed.

Fawkes shakes his head, remaining as near as possible while staying out of the doctors’ way. “Please, allow me—“

Elder Lyons marches in at this point, and hope constricts about Fawkes’ heart. Someone must have already filled the Elder in, since he skips the ‘why’ and ‘how’ of what _happened_ and immediately demands, “What are we _doing_ for her?”

The doctor twists away from Fawkes, her features smoothing from irritation to professional concern. “First priority is the radiation, of course. Despite Rad-Away, the acute radiation exposure means we will be looking at damage to the GI tract, lungs, central nervous system, and immediate dermatologic effects. Antibiotics, then—“

“Odds of survival and reawakening?” Lyons interrupts.

“Still to be determined.”

“And if we install the upgrades we discussed?”

“They may not improve her short-term odds, but definitely her long-term survival unrelated to the radiation. Though invasive as they are, and the fact that this is _not_ a routine procedure, I cannot guarantee—“

Lyons’ jaw tightens. “Sarah understood and agreed to this procedure, should she become incapacitated. My daughter always understood the needs of the Brotherhood.”

“ _Understands_ ,” Cross says quietly. “And there is more than one woman eligible for Brotherhood upgrades here.”

“James’ child?” Lyons smiles, tight and cold. “The little girl has been martyring herself ever since she left her hole in the ground. If the Wasteland needs a messiah, then—“

“We _owe_ her, Elder.” Steel lines her voice even more than her armor. She presses her lips thin, voice soft. “And consider the public perception if Three Dog were to find that Jinx does _not_ survive because we denied her medical care that we are using on one of our own.”

“The Jinx girl?” The doctor lights up, examining the comatose wanderer with renewed interest. “Very interesting medical profile there. We’ve been exchanging notes with Moira Brown of Megaton, and this woman’s host to a veritable _cornucopia_ of interesting mutations…”

“I fail to see what relevance her irradiated genome has upon our conversation,” Lyons says coldly, even as Fawkes’ heart lurches into his chest. He and Jinx are both mutants as much as human, despite their wildly differing outward appearance.

“She actually _heals_ under low levels of radiation, and is immune to radiation sickness if not its more lethal effects. Her odds are already better than Sarah’s, and if I could install the hardware, so to speak, on her first, then I can get better results when I repeat the process on Sarah.” The doctor blinks, flushed from her excited outpouring.

“Jinx is not a guinea pig,” Fawkes says dully.

The doctor grins up at him, needle-sharp as she chuckles. “If you read the number of things she’s done for Ms Brown’s book, you may disagree. Jumping off buildings, wallowing in irradiated puddles, playing minesweeper with a sniper taking potshots at her—I cannot deny there will be risks, but it would still be far safer than the things she willingly undergoes on a routine basis.”

“Fawkes, you know her far better than any other present,” Cross soothes, though Dogmeat’s low whine interrupts. “Save the dog, but he cannot speak.” Mollified, Dogmeat sinks back under the bed. “If you believe she would not consent, or that this is against her best interests, then nothing beyond basic care will be undertaken.”

Fawkes watches Elder Lyons, the man stern and forbidding. The doctor is little better, the glitter in her eyes failing to soothe Fawkes’ worries. Cross… Cross has admitted her own biases. He does not _know_ what Jinx would say, but the terrible awareness that she jumps off _buildings_ and already plans to launch a suicidal assault on Evergreen Mills and Paradise Falls with the purifier activated…

He would prefer a world in which she lives.

And… if it would save Sarah, she was already willing to sacrifice herself once.

“You have my consent.” Brokenly, slumping against the wall, he adds, “And if Jinx objects, I take the blame. Please, just allow me to stay with her during the treatment.”

Elder Lyons’ smile is all teeth. “Done.”

 

* * *

 

Fawkes ends up living in the sick room, Cross kind enough to bring their stashed possessions and an assortment of pillows and blankets for him to camp on the floor. Dogmeat sleeps curled beside him, though slumber is fitful at best during the first few days as the dark-haired doctor (Dr Gutierrez, he learns, though having a name hardly makes her less fierce) and her minions constantly surround the two women. They also start the medical procedures, tracing metal along Jinx’s bones and wiring some sort of subdermal mesh throughout her body. Fawkes lacks the stomach to fully observe each operation, but dares not leave the room for fear they will never let him return.

Gallows, similarly, remains in position by Sarah’s bed. The man speaks little to him, rarely more than two or three words strung together: “Move.” “Back up.” The bare necessities of two large men standing guard over their respective leaders, though Fawkes suspects his presence is at least in part to ensure that Fawkes does not threaten the women’s safety.

Time passes strangely in that windowless room, with only the passing of the doctors to mark the hours. He stays slumped against the wall, elbows resting on his knees until he hears footsteps. Learning the texture of the sound, the endless ways that the armor-clad paladins differentiate themselves from one another (the rhythm of their steps and the way they hold themselves, shoulders high or loose and all the tiny minutiae of the dents or scratches on their equipment because each paladin’s gear is so deeply _personal)_ he recognizes that it’s Star Paladin Cross even before looking up to confirm her features. She walks slow and measured when in the Citadel, making no effort to either mask or announce her presence.

“This belongs to Jinx, but I think she would want you to hold this until she recovers,” she says, holding out a thin volume. Fawkes accepts it mechanically, tracing a finger over the worn cover.

“ _The Captain’s Verses_?”

“It belonged to her mother. Catherine was passionate about poetry, and this was one of her favorites. She had that book as long as I’ve known her. I regret taking so long in returning this to its proper owner.”

Fawkes swallows, gaze drifting from the cyborg standing before him to Jinx still lying in bed. “She does like poetry. She brought a collection by Robert Frost along.” The book lies beside him, still open to where he has been randomly flipping through for whatever lines catch his eye.

“Perhaps she would appreciate some new material then.” Cross’ eyes are warm and endlessly gentle. “And I can bring other books, or perhaps a radio if you like. Two sleeping women and Gallows make for poor company.”

“I _heard_ that,” Gallows mutters, still sitting by Sarah’s side. Fawkes had thought him asleep, the helmet masking his face.

“I never intended you not to.”

 

* * *

 

So he starts reading from the books. His words tumble over one another as he tries reading aloud, hoping the words will chase away the moth-winged specter of death. He starts with Frost’s “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” shaping his mouth about the syllables until it comes out smooth and practiced, memorized, hoping to extend the thread of memory into the labyrinthine recesses of her sleeping mind. Then, thinking she might prefer something new (endlessly curious, perhaps she will only return to the living if enticed with novelty) he goes through the rest of the book.

Occasionally, Cross joins him. Gallows stays a silent sentinel as Fawkes slowly voices the pleasures of winter woods and solitude, struggling to see the world not as the dry and sterile waste it _is_ , but as it was. Even if the woods that Frost walked are far from DC. When Cross takes over the recitation, he sips the hot tea she always brings (and is grateful beyond words for the kindness, the liquid strong and sweet and a little grey with condensed milk) and hopes that somehow, the older woman’s words bring Jinx sweet dreams.

He does not read _The Captain’s Verses_.

Not aloud.

When he initially opens the book, his brow crinkles at the unfamiliar language, the Spanish twisting before his eyes in dizzying incomprehension before realizing the English translation follows on the next page. Then he blushes, hot and deep, as the _content_ sinks through him. _“Little rose, roselet, at times, tiny and naked, it seems as though you would fit in one of my hands…”_

For the first time, he’s thankful for Gallows’ silence. If the paladin finds Fawkes’ immediate slamming of the book and studious looking away from Jinx (Jinx, small and broken and _yes_ she would fit in one of his hands but that’s _completely inappropriate_ in her ill and vulnerable state) amusing, he does not betray anything under that helmet.

So he only reads Neruda furtively, under cover of night and when Gallows takes an infrequent leave. The pages are delicate, satin-smooth beneath his fingers, and he touches only the corners lest he soil their purity.

“ _Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.”_

He is not _in_ love, he reminds himself. But the words elicit warmth and heat, and the only person he can reasonably apply those feelings to is Jinx. And he misses the sudden silver wave of her laughter. They have a _friendship_ , and to presume ownership, to recite love poems like bindings, is far more than any friend should do.

So he reads _Treasure Island_ , the adventure transporting him (and, he hopes, Jinx, with whatever consciousness stirs beneath her medicated haze) far better than dry recitations of prime numbers. He reads _Frankenstein_ aloud, studiously ignoring Gallows as much as the man ignores him.

“’Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form.’” Fawkes swallows from his mug of tepid tea, wetting his throat. He imagines Dr Frankenstein’s voice as a thin, reedy thing, crackling with self-righteous arrogance, but dares not attempt mimicking it. Not in front of Gallows at least. “’Thus I relieve thee, my creator,’ he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes—‘”

Gallows snorts.

Fawkes looks up, blinking astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

Flapping one hand in a dismissive gesture, Gallows clears his throat. “Monster had a sense of humor. Caught me off guard.”

“You were _listening_.” The words feel dull and clumsy on his lips, completely failing to convey his surprise.

Gallows shrugs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Not much else to do. Keep reading, monster.”

He reads on, immediately more self-conscious. Reading to Jinx is one thing, a pleasure reminiscent of Big Town’s fireside tales. Reading not just to Jinx—and he supposes the comatose Sarah— but  now Gallows, keenly aware of the man’s judgment on every syllable, the knife-rasp of his breathing as he sits _listening_ , is entirely different. Each word scrapes like sandpaper on roof of his mouth. Eventually, voice dry, he closes the book.

“Do you,” and he swallows, struck by how _inane_ it is to discuss literature with a man who already made it very clear would be more than happy to kill him if he so much as breathes wrong, “read much?”

“A little.”

“What do you enjoy?”

Gallows shrugs. Fawkes wonders if the man ever performs other gestures. “Whatever I can get.” He taps his fingers against his knee, tilting his head slyly. “Though some of that poetry’s pretty spicy.” His laughter rings mockingly through the small room as Fawkes flushes, dipping his head to conceal it as best he can.

“Have you read _The Captain’s Verses_?” Even with his cheeks still hot with color, Fawkes grabs desperately for any sort of connection with the hitherto silent paladin. His eyes flick over the man’s armor, his helmet—and he had thought _Jinx_ was difficult to read while armored, but the woman constantly fidgets and twitches, small mannerisms betraying her mood even with her face hidden. Gallows, in contrast, is a statue.

“No.”

Fawkes bites his tongue at the monosyllabic response, twisting his hands together. Fleetingly, he wonders… “How did Jinx and you become friends? She is quite talkative, and you are,” his voice trails, but he has to complete the sentence because Gallows certainly makes no attempt to, “not.”

“She talks. I listen.”

“That is but half an answer.”

“Gallows is infamous for his silence.” Cross leans casually in the doorway, a plastic tray in her hand with a large thermos and several mugs sitting atop it. A pleased smile toys across her lips as Fawkes and Gallows both jerk up, startled. “And for being on the alert, but I suppose he was too occupied with provoking a highly dangerous super mutant.”

Gallows releases an irritated ‘feh,’ but otherwise no response as Cross gently tells the story. “Rumor is that Jinx resolved a certain wager amongst the Pride, concerning Gallows’ full name. When none of his own teammates could pull it out of him, legend claims that a bright-eyed girl—“

His shoulders shake—not the fluttering giggles that escape when Jinx laughs, but a single, hard jolt as Gallows snorts “ha! Legend, now?”

“All myths have humble origins.” Cross’ smile is small and secret, a crescent moon half-veiled in shadow as she finally enters the little room.

“But how we _choose_ to tell them shapes our culture. Our collective psyche, as it were. The lessons and morals inherent within.” The words come dredged from his memories, and he reels thinking it was only a few days ago (less than a week?) that Jinx had told him the same thing, though couched in different terms.

“They reaffirm our humanity.” Carefully, with all the solemn formality of a trained hostess, she pours tea into the chipped and mismatched mugs. To Gallows she offers it black, though she mixes in a dollop of condensed milk and sugar before giving Fawkes his drink. Her own she takes with a scant sprinkle. “We are all tale-telling creatures at heart. This is why the story of Jinx charming Gallows’ name away from him holds such a dear place among us in the Citadel.”

Gallows pulls his helmet off, revealing dark features and a surprisingly well-trimmed moustache. Shaking his head, Gallows mutters, “I was tired of that stupid bet anyway.” He loudly slurps his tea.

Tongue-tied and uncertain, Fawkes holds his mug in his palms. He sips, more for something to buy time rather than for the taste, and watches Cross carefully. Mustering his courage, he finally asks, “Could you tell me of Jinx’s parents?”

She smiles, faint wrinkles softening her face. “That may be Jinx’s place to tell you.”

“She never had the chance.” He breathes deeply, tasting the milky tea aroma on the back of his tongue. “I would like to understand her roots. She is… a remarkable woman, and I would like to know where she came from.”

“Lives of worth are not so easily summed up in a few brief lines.” She raises the mug, eyes closed as she tips it down her throat. “They lived. They died. And along the way, they studied and touched the lives of those around them. They created a new life between the two of them. They touched us with grief as they left.” Setting the cup aside, she exhales slowly and lays her hand on the pillow, close but not quite touching Jinx’s cheek. “She has her mother’s nose and skin. Her father’s eyes. Catherine’s heart and James’ determination.”

“Would you say she takes after her mother then?”

Cross chuckles, holding a palm out and dipping it slightly as if weighing something intangible. “She is her mother’s daughter, but her own person. I see both James and Catherine, but… when one mixes red and yellow paints, one does not see _just_ the individual dyes. One sees the final hue stand on its own merits.” Her lips quirk as she glances at Jinx’s scarlet-dyed hair. “Catherine always did like bright colors.”

Fawkes clutches the topic like a life-line. “What else did she like?”

“Poetry.” At Fawkes’ blush, Cross gives a knowing laugh. “Neruda is rather… heated, yes. But she loved beautiful words, the way they stood on the page or echoed on the ear. She loved songs and music and dancing. ‘Papa Loves Mambo’ was her favorite song.”

His face aches with smiling, but it’s a welcome pain. “That’s hers too. She was dancing at Big Town.”

“Oh? Do you dance then?”

And he stammers, shaking his head as he flushes hot and painful. Gallows’ laughter echoes about him in sharp-edged mockery, but Cross stills him with a raised eyebrow and a firm, “Irving.” She turns the gentle weight of her gaze back to Fawkes, features serene and her long fingers brushing his wrist. “Then I can teach you.”

If Dr Gutierrez finds their new arrangement strange, she hides it well. Cross brings in a small radio, setting it to Galaxy News Radio and gently guiding Fawkes through the varying movements. When Fawkes falters, nearly stepping on her metal boots as the doctor appears, Cross simply shakes her head. “Continue.” Slowly, she teaches him—first to follow, then to lead, learning to anticipate the movement rather than staring at his feet in paralyzed fear. Gallows watches from his corner, chuckling occasionally and deigning to tap his foot to the rhythm. A basic pattern of steps, and perhaps Fawkes will never move with easy grace and confidence, but he laughs, joy and sunshine bursting through his chest as he finally—finally!—goes through an entire song without once glancing downward. It echoes far too loud in this enclosed space, and he bites his tongue even as Cross pats his arm reassuringly. “A little like flying, yes?”

“Like leaving King Minos’ labyrinth.”

She raises an eyebrow, tilting her head to examine him with slow-moving eyes. “That tale does not end well, as I recall.”

“We are tale-telling creatures.” He dares allows his teeth to show as he smiles, taking heart as she does not flinch. “Perhaps some stories need to be retold.” Bold, reckless even, with adrenalin like whiskey through his veins, he adds, “And we are all trapped in our own ways. We are just unfortunate enough that the chains are of our own making.”

Gallows snorts, voice rich with both mirth and disdain. “And what traps a monster then?”

“Regret for all that remains undone.”

He catches Cross with her mouth open, but she pauses, jaw closing as she examines him with new eyes. Her eyes are dark, deep as the space between stars, the unfathomable depths of the galaxy—and for a dizzying moment, he feels he could fall in, even knowing it is a fictional thing like the lights of the planetarium.

“For all the good we fail to do.” Her soft-spoken words are smooth as still waters, but with an ocean’s depth.

“One of Jinx’s regrets. She—she has plans already, for after this.” And with an exhale, the weight off his shoulder because in some strange way, _making_ plans and sharing them affirms that Jinx _will_ come through. So he shares her plans for Evergreen Mills, for Paradise Falls and mopping up raiders and super mutants. For weaving that impossible distance between ‘should be’ and ‘is,’ stitching them closer with every act of kindness.

Gallows rolls his eyes, leaning back and sipping his soda.

But Cross’s gaze never leaves his. “It would be an honor to accompany you, if you would have me.”

Her trust stays warm in his heart even after she leaves.

 

* * *

 

Dance lessons join recitations in the daily routine, as comforting and predictable as a dressing change. Dogmeat endures their dance lessons in good humor, though he occasionally whines when Cross attempts teaching Fawkes how to dip or lift.

“There is no need to be afraid,” she chides, tapping Fawkes’ hand. Her usual armor is gone, replaced by loose-fitting leggings and a tunic that looks modified from an unarmed sparring uniform. “Your size and strength work _for_ you with these techniques.” Squeezing her fingers about his wrist, failing to make thumb and forefinger meet across his green flesh, she drily comments, “You need not be so afraid of harming others.”

Gallows coughs in the background, shoulders shaking.

“Pain is inevitable in this life. But we embrace and overcome it, like children telling campfire tales against the dark.” She pulls on his hand, and Fawkes shuffles slowly as she smoothly takes the lead. It’s a simple pattern by now, a step and a turn and a kick, and he no longer lumbers elephantine behind her.

 

. . .

 

Fawkes pauses mid-sentence (“ _Home is the place where, when you have to go there—_ “) as a tall Asian woman enters the room. Despite her white coat, he does not recognize her as part of the medical team.

“Doctor…?”

“Dr Madison Li,” she says crisply, ignoring Gallows as the man rises. “I worked with Jennifer’s parents and wanted to pay my respects before leaving.”

“She prefers Jinx.” The protest comes clumsy off his lips, but she nods, softening the line of her jaw.

“I am aware.” Standing by the bed, looking down at Jinx and cocking her head, she murmurs, “I simply forgot.” The confession leaves her with slumped shoulders and a rigid back, searching Jinx’s face for answers to questions he cannot even guess.

“Are you here to check on her welfare?” Fawkes asks, setting the book aside and standing. Dogmeat stays in place, napping under the bed even though his ears twitch at Dr Li’s entry.

“Yes.” Terse and cool, she might well be a female Charon.

He stares at her. She stares at Jinx. Gallows stares at both of them.

Finally, to break the awkward tableau, Fawkes asks “Did you know her well?”

“No.” A long pause, then she exhales slowly, as if she had forgotten to breathe until just now. “She saved my life. And most of my team.” She continues studying the comatose Jinx, matching the topography of her features to some internal map. Two more breaths; one long, one short. “She looked so much like him.”

Fawkes’ skin crawls. “She’s still alive.”

“I’m not burying her yet.” Acid laces her tone. “She looked so much like him when I first met her. All the altruism and the hope. That same stubborn determination. But now,” she flicks her fingers over the bed, tracing inches above Jinx’s skin, “I think not.”

 “You no longer believe she favors him, then?”

“No.” Dr Li withdraws her hand, straightening her already crisp coat. “It does her no favors. She deserves better than that.” Her lips tighten, and she glares up in a blaze of indecipherable emotion, challenging Fawkes to question her. He does not. “When she awakes, tell her that Catherine would be proud.”

Swallowing, Fawkes suggests, “You could tell her yourself.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning for the Commonwealth.” The name means nothing to Fawkes, but the finality in her voice implies a great distance. “This is goodbye.”

She leaves as abruptly as she came.

 

* * *

 

There are no other visitors; other than Cross’ visits and the ever-brisk Dr Gutierrez, Fawkes may as well be alone. Dogmeat’s presence comforts him, but the dog can hardly talk or share his grief. Gallows remains in watchful silence, and it becomes easier to ignore him. Far simpler and more painless to imagine him a golem animated only by others’ presence. Easier until the radio station switches from ‘Let’s Go Sunning’ to a soft croon that rips his heart.

“ _I’m as corny as Kansas in August…”_

It’s a small, irrational thing—but something breaks inside. Burying his face in his palms and drawing his knees to his chest, bundling himself small and compact ( _but not like her, never like her because she is so small but she expands to fill her world with sunlight and laughter_ ) with only Dogmeat’s wet nose against his hand to remind him he’s _not_ alone, he cries. Silent tears, salt stinging his eyes and shoulders trembling with the effort of keeping himself together, biting his lip because at the end of the day, his grief is but a single drop against an ocean.

The few days he’s known her are a lifetime after the endless monotony of his cell.

Something soft smacks against his forehead and he looks up to see Gallows standing. The paladin’s hand is still extended, palm down and fingers curled from that impromptu toss. Picking up the cloth square, Fawkes stares at it in incomprehension.

The awkward silence stretches, thick and viscous until Gallows bites out “Use it. Or don’t you recognize a handkerchief?”

“Why?”

“You’re crying.” Another long pause, the paladin crossing his arms and gaze drifting sideways as he addresses the wall. “Monsters don’t cry.” As if exhausted by that spate of words, he retreats back to his seat. He sits stone-faced as Fawkes blots his eyes, and then shakes his head when Fawkes starts to stand. “Keep it.”

After that, something shifts between them. Gallows still sits silent and watchful as Fawkes reads or the radio plays, but it relaxes, tension slipping away so that the texture of Gallows’ presence is but another aspect of the small room. Gallows even leaves on occasion, bringing back hot cups of noodles or coffee for both of them. This gives Fawkes more opportunities to read Neruda’s poetry, and he no longer jerks as guiltily when Gallows returns. Eventually, Gallows gives him a slim package wrapped in brown paper.

“For you.” He lingers near as Fawkes unwraps it, the meta human careful not to rip the fragile contents. When Fawkes chokes, sputtering at the issue of _Cat’s Paw_ now in his hands, Gallows snickers, clapping him on the back. “Something more satisfying than poetry.”

“These are _highly_ impractical uses of energy weapons,” Fawkes says stiffly, with as much dignity as he can muster. The half-clad woman on the cover leers at him.

“A lot of highly impractical prewar tech out there.” Gallows’ voice remains dry as ever, but he smirks. “And you can loosen up a bit.”

“The man who hunts super mutants for recreation is telling me to ‘loosen up’?” Fawkes slips the magazine into his pack, raising a hairless brow.

“Beats treating poetry like wank material.”

Fawkes wisely keeps his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes for chapters 17, 18, and 19 can be found [here.](http://chocochipbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/101478917350/finally-updated-jinxed-chapters-17-18-and-19)


	20. Falling

Fawkes sits next to the bed, listing to the side with his elbow propped against the mattress. The palm of his hand makes an impromptu pillow, though he still thinks longingly of having his own bed. Despite appearances, that horrific love nest was _comfortable_.

A soft rasp catches his attention. He looks up to catch Jinx blinking at him, eyes like ghosts against her dark skin. Staring at her, wondering if she’s truly conscious or still caught halfway between sleep and waking, he stays mute until she licks her lips, quirking the corners of her mouth upward.

“Hey.” Her voice is scarcely more than breath.

Gallows rises to his feet, metal on metal with unusual loudness as he grins fiercely. “You’re back! I’m getting the doctor.”

“Fawkes? Izzat you?” she mumbles, eyes hazy.

He swallows, hoping she’s not delirious. “Yes, Jinx. You’ve been recovering for the past two weeks.”

“I could kiss you, you know.” And she smiles, broad and lazy, rolling her head to the side and wriggling her shoulder so it touches his hand.

He withdraws as if scalded. “My friend, you are not yet yourself—“

But then Elder Lyons enters, flanked by Dr Gutierrez and Star Paladin Cross with Gallows bringing up the rear. Dr Gutierrez immediately checks Jinx’s vital monitors, comparing them to Sarah’s and muttering imprecations under her breath as Lyons stands by the foot of the bed. Jinx narrows her eyes, pushing up with her elbows and struggling to sit upright until Fawkes places a hand under her armpit (and he blames Gallows and his _Cat’s Paw_ but even in the shapeless sleepwear the Brotherhood doctors dress her in he becomes keenly aware that Jinx _never_ wears a bra) as Lyons begins speaking.

“Careful now, careful… don’t move too quickly. Everything’s fine. You’re safe…. You’re in the Citadel.” His soothing voice grates over Fawkes’ ears, the man leaning across the bed like a vulture. “I was starting to think you might never wake up, despite assurances to the contrary.” Fawkes catches Gutierrez biting her tongue, shaking her head in irritation. “It’s good that at least one of you has recovered.”

She shakes her head, brow crinkled in confusion. “Where’s Sarah? Is she okay?”

“Yes yes, she’s fine. Or she will be.” Despite the smile on his face, the skin about his eyes remains unchanged. “I appreciate your concern for her, but really, don’t worry. You’ve been through enough.”

Shaking her head more violently (and Fawkes has to catch her when she nearly knocks herself over), she demands “What happened? How did I get here?” Dogmeat jumps on the bed, leaving dirty paw-prints as he starts licking her face. Dr Gutierrez immediately tries shooing him away, but Cross stops her with a gentle hand.

“Please, relax. Everything is fine,” Elder Lyons says calmly, ignoring the women’s byplay.  “You were brought back to the Citadel after some sort of energy spike in the purifier. Both you and Sarah were knocked unconscious. Quite a bit has happened since then.”

“What about the purifier? Did it work?” She leans into Fawkes’ shoulder as Dogmeat butts his head against her. Even while energetically ruffling the fur about his neck, her eyes remain locked on Lyons’, wide and hungry.

“Indeed it did.” Finally, the warmth reaches Elder Lyons’ eyes, his voice rich with pride. “The tidal basin is full of fresh, clean water now. We’ve been working to distribute it to as many people as possible across the Wasteland. In fact,” he chuckles, closing his eyes and lost in whatever fantasy lies behind those lids, “I am confident we soon won’t be calling it ‘the Wasteland’ any longer. None of it would have been possible without the efforts of both you and your father. I doubt we shall ever be able to truly repay you.”

Jinx stiffens at the mention of her father, fingers still. “So what happens now?”

Lyons simply looks at her, as if measuring her. Without her armor, without her rifle and wearing an oversized patient’s gown… Fawkes finds himself uncertain whether to be pleased or dismayed that she looks so unassuming.

“…well, that’s really up to you now, isn’t it?” He presses his lips together, glancing at Cross and Gallows. Neither betrays any emotion. “The Brotherhood has a clear plan of action: the remnants of the Enclave must be swept away. The Pride has been working to this end ever since we took the purifier back. The only remaining question is whether we can count on you to help us.”

Jinx stares up sightlessly, jaw loose as she swallows. Her hands fist together in Dogmeat’s fur as she breathes deep, exhaling in a long, slow sigh. “Is there any way I can help?”

Dr Gutierrez slaps her clipboard against the table, wheeling to face Jinx. “Not until you recover. Just being awake and alert doesn’t mean you’re back in fighting shape. Even _with_ your mods.”

“My… what?” Jinx blinks.

“The modifications. You currently enjoy a metal-reinforced skeleton, accelerated healing factors, improved damage resistance—“

“My _what_?!” Jinx starts thrashing in agitation, pushing Dogmeat aside and swinging her legs out of bed. Not even bothering to keep her robe closed in the back (and Fawkes hastily ties it for her, fumbling at the strings as she stands on shaking legs) she slaps her fist against her palm, seething. “You slap a control chip while you were in there?”

“While that option was discussed, I ultimately vetoed it.” Dr Gutierrez’s tone could suck moisture from a cloud.

Cross quietly murmurs “inappropriate timing.”

Jinx grits her teeth, nostrils flaring. “Not a _joke_ , doctor! I— _shit_ , why didn’t anyone even _ask_ me before?”

All eyes go to Fawkes and he flushes beneath the attention. Jinx watches them warily, fists clenched by her side before slowly turning. Slowly, deliberately, she asks “Fawkes?”

“When the suggestion was made, I thought it the best option for your long-term survival.” He drops his gaze, still sitting on the floor. “I apologize for acting against your wishes.”

“These are the same modifications we’ve applied to Sarah,” Dr Gutierrez cuts in. “Though the high radiation levels have accelerated your healing process. Your mutations served you well.”

Jinx simply opens and closes her mouth, gulping like a fish out of water before rediscovering her voice. “I woke up a different _person_ ,” she hisses.

“We poured the same resources into you as we would have for any other honored member of the Brotherhood,” Lyons says sternly. “But if you wish to contribute as a member in good standing, feel free to seek out myself or Scribe Rothschild.” At Dr Gutierrez’s sharp glare, he adds “After you fully recover, of course.” He promptly exits.

“I apologize for doing this without your consent, but we didn’t _have_ it prior.” Gutierrez remains brisk.

“Am I still—am I still _human_?” Jinx flicks her gaze guiltily to Fawkes. “Am I still _me_?”

“What is the measure of a nonhuman?” he asks softly. “You are still capable of self-determination.”

“No control chips. No efforts to alter your personality.” Dr Gutierrez holds her hands behind her back, as stiff and formal as if part of the military rather than the medical team. Then again, perhaps the Brotherhood blurs those distinctions. “All your decisions are your own. So you tell _me_ how human you think you are.”

Jinx glares, all confused rage and lingering resentment until Dogmeat jump up to lick her face. She giggles, then laughs, wrapping her arm around the furry beast.

Fawkes lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Any worries _she_ might have about being human are purely her own. He knows from the moment she laughs and blots against Dogmeat’s fur. It’s confirmed when Gutierrez allows the little wanderer to get dressed, escorting her outside for her first glimpse of the sun in weeks, and she stands blinking, hand outstretched and a smile budding across her lips.

“Not near as blinding as the first time,” she mutters, voice cracked with wonder. “Nineteen years is a helluva long time to go without sun. Two weeks is nothing.”

She is still so very human.

Dr Gutierrez wants to keep her for observation, but Jinx struggles like a caged bird.

“If there are any complications—“

“Nah. I’ve been watching out for myself. Besides, now I’ve got Fawkes.” Jinx chuckles, packing the books back into place. “And Moira plus Doc Church to deal with any whirring clicking robot bits that go awry. Or blood and guts type of problems.”

“If something were to happen on your journey—“

“ _Please_.” She grins knife-sharp and deadly, eyes chill. “I’ve trekked with worse. Besides, I’m not going alone.”

Fawkes’ heart swells.

Dr Gutierrez makes a disgusted noise under her breath. “Very well. I can’t keep you, but I recommend against over-exerting yourself.”

“Fine. No charging at the Enclave. Got it.” Jinx dismissively flaps her hand, but Cross interjects.

“No charging Evergreen Mills or Paradise Falls either.” She chuckles at Jinx’s frog-mouthed expression. “Not without me. And while I understand if you have experienced enough Brotherhood hospitality for a while, I will always welcome your presence.”

“Thank you.” Jinx tilts her head, hands clasped and unnaturally still for the hyperkinetic teen… until Fawkes glances down at her wriggling toes, the squirming little nubs betraying her unease. “I—I would still like very much to talk to you about my mom. If you have the time.”

“For that, I would carve slivers off eternity.” Cross seats herself in the bedside chair, and Jinx plops herself on the mattress, sitting tailor-style. Cross turns her face up, smiling gently. “Fawkes, perhaps you could bring us some tea? Gallows can guide you to the galley.”

Gallows accepts the dismissal in good spirits, clicking his helmet into place. “Come on, monster.”

Jinx narrows her eyes. “Gallows, don’t—“

“It is all right.” Fawkes smiles, the expression widening in surprise as he realizes he actually _means_ it. “From Gallows, it is all right.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, nearly lost beneath her fringe as she laughs disbelievingly. “I see I have a lot to catch up on.”

Gallows leads Fawkes to the small dining room, where he snags a mug and fills it from the half-empty pot sitting on the coffee machine. He pulls off his helmet to sip it, but promptly makes a face. “Damn thing must’ve sat overnight.”

“And yet you drink it anyway,” Fawkes observes.

Up-ending the mug with a long swallow, Gallows shrugs. “Coffee is too precious to waste.” He fills another pot with fresh water, pouring it into a different machine and setting it to heat the water. Fawkes stands awkwardly to the side as Gallows busies himself with fresh mugs and teabags. “Want any?”

Fawkes shakes his head.

Gallows leans against the counter, waiting for the water to heat. “So. Jinx really plans on cleaning up those raiders and slaver pits?”

“Since I first met her.”

He grins, eyes glittering sharp. “Good. About time someone did.”

Hesitantly, voice soft to avoid sounding of accusation, Fawkes asks, “Why has the Brotherhood never done so?”

“Too many of the elders remember the Scourge.”

The name means nothing to Fawkes, but he waits until Gallows’ jaw unclenches before asking his next question. “And what was that?”

“Shit. Don’t know how much you know about the Brotherhood. Might be better if we got a Scribe, but don’t know if they’d really want to talk to you.” He scratches the side of his jaw, eyes distant. “History in a nutshell: Brotherhood was meant to save _tech_ , not people. We can only rebuild the world and better humanity as a _whole_ if we can recover all the prewar knowledge, you understand?”

Not really, not when saving humanity as a whole means recognizing the importance of the individual—but Fawkes thinks of Jinx’s enthusiastic mention of the Arlington Library and its many books. So he nods.

“Technically, what we’re doing now is breaking away from that purpose. We were never meant to try saving every wasteland asshole. To try and put the life of an _individual_ above humanity as a whole.” Gallows doesn’t meet Fawkes’ gaze during this speech, instead watching bubbles form in the heating water. “But this place, the Pitt—it was a fucking cesspool. Toxic. Raiders and slavers and rape gangs just running wild. Shitty hell on earth, and if we let it fester, it could’ve overrun to _our_ borders. So Elder Lyons and some of our senior paladins went in to cleanse it. Just swept on through. Nearly annihilated the whole fucking city in one night.”

“An entire city?” Fawkes tightens his grip on the counter, unable to restrain the horror in his voice.

“Most of it. Anyone who put up a fight. Saved who we could—got about twenty kids. The ones who hadn’t gone feral, hadn’t mutated into shambling horrors yet.” A pause as Gallows rummages for sugar and milk. “Got one of our best recruits that way. Kodiak’ll talk about it if you really want to know, but I don’t recommend it.”

“And how many did the Brotherhood lose?”

A longer pause. “I was a kid during the Scourge. I didn’t know shit. But power armor doesn’t make you invincible. We lost people. Not just the dead, but some who stayed behind. Went native.” He smiles, a ghastly rictus. “You ever read this book called _Heart of Darkness_?”

“By Joseph Conrad? I am familiar.”

“Then you get the gist of it.” Gallows coughs. “So Lyons says we still help, we try to organize the parts of the Wasteland, we wipe out greenies in the field, but we’re not repeating the Scourge.”

 _And we remain guilty of all the good we do not do._ Somehow, Gallows’ averted eyes fail to compensate for Fawkes’ vivid memory of a bright-eyed, bright-haired girl shaking with impotent rage. But Gallows, for all his faults, fails to garner his disgust. That falls to an old man willing to martyr a teenager who was never his to command.

“I understand.”

Gallows laughs low and bitter as he pours the hot water. “Yeah. I bet you do.”

Fawkes mutely helps Gallows assemble a tray, accompanying him back to the sick room. Dr Gutierrez is gone already, Jinx is dressed in her thin under-armor, and Cross smiles beatifically at their approach.

“Thank you for the tea. Milk or sugar, Jinx?”

“Milk?” She blinks, chuckling. “Yeah. Been a while since I had that.”

“Condensed only, I’m afraid.”

“Only kind we had in the vault.” Jinx plops in a generous dollop, stirring to melt its thickness.

Spoon tinkling against her cup, Cross says, “Your mother would sometimes simply pop a spoonful in her mouth for dessert. Cookies and snack cakes had little appeal for her.”

Jinx ruffles a hand through her hair, laughing. The sound fills the empty spaces in his chest. “Okay, _that’s_ a little too weird for me. But if it made her happy, I guess.”

Gallows departs like a shadow, but Fawkes’ own attempt to retreat draws Jinx’s attention.

“Hey. You don’t have to go.” And she smiles like sunshine. “Stay with me.”

So he does, silent and attentive as Cross tells stories of Jinx’s mother, Catherine.

She does not ask about her father.

 

* * *

 

 

They walk back to Megaton, Jinx firmly ensconced in her Tesla armor. While slightly slower than before, she shrugs off Fawkes’ offers to take more frequent rest breaks. Dogmeat trails along with her, occasionally running off to snap at dust devils or shriveled grass, but never venturing too far from his beloved mistress.

Jinx finds a warm welcome at Megaton, Simms clasping her hand firmly and Deb flinging her arms around her. Word travels quickly through the town, and Jenny surprises them with dinner that night.

“Not now. This one’s on the house,” she says firmly, ignoring Jinx’s offer of payment and leaving the covered dishes on the table. “Just bring back the trays.”

Nova swings by after work with a bottle of wine and a smile, trailing her fingers through Jinx’s hair and kissing her forehead. “Glad you made it back in one piece, hon.”

Even Jericho comes knocking, though he simply snorts and leaves once he confirms the rumors are true. “Should’ve known you were too cussed stubborn to die.”

And things start falling into a routine, one far easier to slip into than the habits of the Citadel. He usually wakes up and lies in bed reading. Neruda feels too intimate to revisit, so he contents himself with other books and poems. Then Jinx comes downstairs, stiff and wincing and he tries not to stare at the fresh scars lining her body, the neat surgical lines where Dr Gutierrez already pulled out the stitches but where the skin has yet to fully heal over. But she wears them with indifference, simply adopting them as another part of her body.

Something more visible than metal on her bones and the mutations in her genes.

They talk over breakfast. No more great soul-baring exchanges, but small things of preferences, meals, the people they’ve met—and Fawkes thinks this must be so strange, that it is only _after_ they start living together that they truly get to know one another. He knows her fears and dreams, the great secrets pulsing at her core, but so little of the daily and mundane. So he learns that too, like how stale Sugar Bombs are her favorite breakfast (and he thinks she may have been a hummingbird in another life, with how she could eat her weight in sugar if the opportunity presented itself) and how the first thing she does every morning is let Dogmeat out to urinate. The dog faithfully relieves himself against Jericho’s house before wandering off to defecate. Jericho objects whenever he catches them, but rarely rises early enough to bother.

Then… well, she’s still healing. So they sit together and read, Fawkes sitting tailor-style on his mattress and Jinx plopped on her belly beside him. She cannot sit still for long, and likes to curl on her side or prop her head against his knee whenever she wearies of one position. The first time she does it without hesitation, but freezes when his leg tenses.

“Oops. Sorry. I should have asked.”

But he forces his breathing slow and even, watching the way she burrows her toes into the covers as if trying to hide. “It is all right.”

So she starts asking each time, and he grants permission as she rests her cheek against his lap or her back against his thigh, propping pillows or blankets against him and fashioning him into an impromptu backrest. He finds he does not mind, and watching her assemble her nest with furrowed brows and her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth warms his heart. Slowly, they learn to fit around one another like furniture, with Dogmeat contentedly curled alongside.

Reading usually keeps them occupied until the afternoon, until his belly growls and hers gurgles in response. He first tries cooking _for_ her, but the smoking mess he makes of Salisbury steak sets tears in both their eyes. And her whooping laughter does not help. So they start cooking together, another little way they start tumbling their edges smooth around one another as he relearns to navigate a kitchen. Eventually she lets him cook on his own and his heart hammers as she takes her first bite of brahmin simmered in barbecue sauce. Her smile’s even sweeter than the cobbler he made for dessert.

After lunch, she is usually too restless to stay sitting long— so they go for a walk around Megaton, saying hello to Deb, a blonde woman named Lucy West, Simms, Maggie Creel and Harden, Billy Creel and more people that Fawkes is starting to remember and recognize, and who gradually stop shying away as he approaches. Then they clean her guns and miscellaneous pieces of gear. She disassembles a small clock she picks up from a passing junk merchant and practices putting it together, humming soft and out of tune with the radio. The song she hums is rarely the same as what’s playing, the two melodies in constant war.

They also finally stop by Craterside Supply and Fawkes gets to meet the chipper Moira, who promptly starts questioning him about his mutations, super mutant social hierarchy and what creates a behemoth. Laughing, Jinx stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and a pleading “ _Moira_ , we need armor for him. And some new clothes. And you’re the only one I know who can do it.” So Fawkes stands, flushed and awkward, as Moira grabs a stepladder and starts taking measurements. She promises them results in a week. Jinx also discovers a working jukebox in Moira’s shop and promptly purchases it. Fawkes does not mind carrying it home for her.

That is but one afternoon from their days together. Dinner is usually a shared meal, with Jenny either dropping off more food or Lucy stopping by with fresh meat that she trades for bullets from Jinx’s vast armory. Nova makes herself at home more often than not, wafting in with the scent of cigarettes and the sweet-pungent smell of old perfume. She teaches Fawkes poker (which he frequently loses), blackjack (which he less frequently loses), and finally, in exasperation, Go Fish. Fawkes soon discovers this is _not_ a game that he frequently loses, though he counts his coin in Jinx’s laughter. Whenever Jinx bores of the game or Nova takes pity on his ineptitude with the cards, Jinx turns on the radio or the jukebox and starts dancing. She coos with delight when she discovers Fawkes now knows how to dance, and puts Cross’ lessons to good use in making him twirl her about their limited floor space.

But Jinx is a wanderer at heart, and this domestic routine cannot hold her long. Her healing goes faster than anticipated (and while she disparagingly blames the ‘whirring gears and ticking things’ beneath her skin he notes her increased caloric consumption and wonders how much energy that ‘healing factor’ Cross described requires) and she rustles about like a caged bird. One week he can hold her close to home, then two—

And then the rain comes.

Silver percussion sounds off the metal roof, like thousands of beads sliding through a glass tube. Their home has no windows, no way to gauge the weather short of opening the front door. The air is thick and heavy in the back of his throat when he wakes up and if the noise hadn’t been enough, Jinx thumping down the stairs and flopping onto the mattress beside him would certainly have jolted him awake.

“Fawkes!” Her neon-red hair is fluffed in all directions, like a rising atomic cloud. “You hear that?” she asks, wide-eyed with wonder.

“I hear little over your excitement.” He hopes his smile makes it clear he’s only teasing.

But she isn’t one to take offense where none is meant. Instead she mimes zipping her lips, eyes furrowed in ferocious concentration as the roof pings like tiny chimes. “ _That_.”

“And what do you think it is?” Even if he knows—or thinks he knows, as few things are ever truly certain in this world—he will play his wonder to the hilt if it brings her joy.

Her eyes shine like beacons as she breathes a single word. “Rain.”

He sits up and she follows suit, sitting cross-legged in ripped pants and a white tank top. However high her excitement, at least she had the courtesy to get dressed before bounding downstairs. Stretching his arms overhead, savoring the dull pop as he rolls his shoulders, he asks, “Shall we investigate?”

With mock formality, she intones, “Yes.”

He rises to open the door for her, but she hangs back to watch the falling drops with a slack jaw. “Oh wow.” Dogmeat trots out to urinate against Jericho’s house, then promptly returns, shaking himself dry and aerosolizing both girl and mutant. Jinx shrieks, edging a bare toe into the wet puddle s just beyond their door with a giggling, “Well, since we’re not wet _anyway_ …” She tip-toes out with high knees and exaggerated daintiness, shivering as wet marks dot over her torso. Tilting her head back with her mouth up and tongue out, she spins slowly in place while attempting to catch the rain. Raising her hands, palms-up, she traces a circle overhead, laughing. Then she cocks her head at Fawkes with a grin. “Come on out. The water’s fine.”

How can he refuse that little hand extended in invitation?

He shivers as the rain hits his skin, lukewarm and tickling as it slides over his neck, collecting in fat beads before dripping away. With alarm, he notes that her thin white shirt is slowly becoming translucent but the warning dies on his lips as she seizes his hands, twirling gaily. She spins about him in a circle, a revolution—dizzyingly, he thinks their positions need to reverse, since _he_ certainly is not the central figure of the Capital Wasteland, but then she slips, wet fingers sliding from his grasp. Her backside hits the metal walkway with an echoing thud, but she laughs even harder as he kneels beside her.

She waves away his concern with a flick of her fingers, the rain kissing her lips as she grins. “Well, I guess I’m just like the rain.”

“How so?”

“I’m falling for you.”

And she’s still smiling, warm and fierce with her lower lip held between her teeth. So he chuckles at yet another of her many jokes.

Until she takes his hand, cupping it between hers and chewing her lip. “Fawkes, may I kiss you?”

All the gears grind to a halt. “Why?”

She drops his palm like a child caught stealing sweets, ducking her head and no longer meeting his eyes. “Because I like you. Because I hope you like me too.”

 _But I thought you preferred—_ oh. She likes who she likes.

“But it’s fine if you don’t. You are still my best friend and companion.” Jinx stands, her mirror-bright smile locked back in place.

But Fawkes cannot let this end, not watch her slump before him like a cut flower—so he coughs into his hand. “I am not opposed.”

“’I don’t mind’ is not the same as ‘I want this.’ It’s okay, Fawkes.” She smiles, but it’s a mask that doesn’t reach her eyes. Rain smears suspiciously like tears across her face. “I want someone who wants me too.”

“But I do.” Blushing so hot he’s surprised the rain doesn’t sizzle as it strikes, he forges ahead. “I want,” and poetry slips across his tongue and he’s grateful beyond words for Cross’ books and their talks, little conversations to sand the roughness from his speech, “your laughter ringing through the house like silver bells. I want your smile to warm the world like the sunrise. I want to see you grow, and live, and perform all the many good things that contribute joy to the world. I want you to be _happy_.”

Her smile is soft and guarded, her eyes shuttered like windows against a storm. “And I can be happy with a friend.”

Words have failed and embarrassment chokes his throat.

 _What would Jinx do_?

Something impulsive and ill-advised, no doubt. So he swallows his guilt and his shame and _her body is a thing of wonder and beauty, sharp angles and scant curves and covered in scars like stories and whispers on flesh_ and if he does not go _now_ she will politely withdraw and never ask again and he will never find the courage—

He dips his head to hers, noses bumping so he tilts instinctively, pressing his lips to hers. She tastes cool and fresh as a new bud, her lips wet and petal-soft. It’s not much of a kiss, truly, but at least their lips brush before he withdraws.

She remains still, like a startled molerat.

“I apologize,” he says automatically.

Her shoulders start shaking, and the water smeared across her face looks so much like tears that it takes a few moments before he realizes she’s _laughing_. The laughter spills past her lips like chimes before she grabs him by the shoulder, pulling him close.

This second kiss is better.

 

* * *

 

 

So kisses are added to the routine, tiny bursts of intimacy. Occasionally she brushes her lips over his leg, kissing his calf as she reclines against him. Sometimes while cooking, she tilts her head and wets her lips before asking “may I?” and he bends his knees to let her close. He lets her initiate each gesture, still too uncertain around her to trust his own judgment. But perhaps the strangest part of their fledgling relationship is that she no longer goes up to her room to sleep, instead staying down with him and talking into the small hours until her eyes grow heavy and she yawns, curling up cat-like next to him. He does not have the heart to wake her, instead tucking her in. In truth, it is no stranger than that first night they slept together under that hideous lamp (long since given back to Moira) but the relentless weight of all this _knowing_ makes it harder.

They do not share that intimacy in public—not that Fawkes feels she is ashamed, but because this is a small and secret thing, something not to be widely broadcast until they adjust to this new part of their relationship. Occasionally she squeezes his hand or leans on his arm, and he permits himself to lay his hand over hers or to touch the softness of her hair, stroking it like fur. Small things, hardly giggling teenagers making out in dark corners or clinging to one another—but Nova knows. She grins at them, equal parts devil and sister the first time she spots Jinx’s hand on his. Her gaze lingers, and she invites Jinx upstairs for ‘girl talk’ while Fawkes sits downstairs at the bar making awkward small talk with Billy Creel. They return half an hour later, laughing gaily and leaning on one another like co-conspirators before Nova swats Jinx affectionately and blows them both a kiss.

“Have fun, you crazy kids. Stay safe,” she calls, leaning against the stairs as Jinx pulls Fawkes out of the saloon.

Thankfully, no one else notices—though Fawkes soon realizes this only means that no one _comments_. Even if Deb, Lucy, Jenny, Doc Church, Moira—really, everyone in Megaton—is too polite or too reserved to say anything, Jinx’s ‘favorite neighbor’ has never been accused of being either.

Jericho picks one otherwise quiet day to stomp over, beating his fist against the door until Jinx answers. He ignores her startled “hello?” and instead points to Fawkes.

“Mutie, you and me gotta have a talk.” He reeks of whiskey and stale cigarettes, but his _insistence_ gives Fawkes pause. Against his better judgment, he follows the man next door, spending an appalling afternoon learning what Jericho considers sexual education. Jericho also insists on drawing highly detailed but improbable diagrams for Fawkes, who tolerates this stoically. When Fawkes finally escapes (making a solemn vow to actively forget as much as possible), Jinx worsens the matter by adding helpful corrections.

On the whole, he prefers the days when it’s just kissing.

But kisses do not distract her from her greater purpose. They stop by Moira’s shop to pick up Fawkes’ armor and he admires the stitched leather, reinforced with metal plates. It may not offer the same protection as Jinx’s Tesla armor, but it is far superior to his increasingly tattered vault suit. For casual wear, she assembled dark pants and two new (or ‘new’ by Wasteland standards) button-up shirts, and he does not know where she found the material but he’s grateful that it’s not the ragged patchwork he was half-expecting.

He has armor now, and even his worried nature is forced to admit that Jinx is completely healed by now. There is nothing else to bar them from marching on Evergreen Mills or Paradise Falls.

Except for one last farewell to old ghosts.

“Hey. Let’s go on a picnic,” she says abruptly, pulling out that leather jacket he first saw hanging in her locker all those weeks ago. “I’ll make sandwiches, pack some Nuka Cola, it’ll be grand. I can show you the old home front before we gear up for the Mills.”

So he brushes Dogmeat (a futile effort, as he will promptly go rolling in the dirt once they leave) as Jinx readies herself, and then follows her northwest of Megaton.


	21. Can't Go Home Again

She sets a quick pace, her jaunty whistle carrying shrill across the wastes. Fawkes carries their food, but despite the casual nature of this outing, he cannot help studying her for any signs of weakness. She seems hale and whole—though strange to see her outside of Megaton’s walls in anything less than full armor. Even so, this is the Wasteland; she still carries her plasma rifle. His lingering doubts about her health are dispelled as she clambers over rocks and gravel embankments with ease, finally going up a strangely bare dirt path. Rather than follow the path to its end, where a weathered gate sits recessed into the hillside, Jinx pauses at the top, brushing her fingers over the faded blue sign that reads ‘SCENIC OVERLOOK.’

Perhaps it looked better in the prewar days. Fawkes stares out over the tumbled ruins and barren trees, the crumbling edifices of times past, and finds little joy in it. But she does, judging by the small smile creeping across her lips as if against her will.

“Not much, I know, but once I got over being blinded… _this_. This whole vista. Just so much _space_ , room to breathe and run and do whatever I wanted. No more metal walls.”

Comprehension dawns. “That gate leads to your vault?”

“Not _my_ vault anymore.” For a moment he thinks she’s about to reach for his hand and he holds his arm out for her, but she instead starts fiddling with her Pip-Boy. “Might as well get some mood music.” Her finger slips as she mutters, “Huh, a distress signal…”

 _“It feels like you left home a long time ago, but I know you’re still out there.”_ Jinx’s jaw drops, eyes wide as she stares at her Pip-Boy with ashen features. The woman’s plea continues and Jinx listens to the whole thing. It loops back, repeating. She allows it to play one more time, finally clicking it off after “ _I changed the door password to my name. If you’re hearing this, and if you still care enough to help me, you should remember it.”_

Silence lingers, Jinx standing with her shoulder to the door as if only able to bear glancing side-long at it.

“Fawkes, I—I have to go back.”

“Not alone.”

 Dogmeat thumps his tail against the dirt in agreement, nuzzling his nose against Jinx’s leg.

“They—Fawkes. Please, understand.” She turns her face up, eyes gleaming and looking so uncharacteristically _terrified_ that he knows there is no power on earth that will keep him from her side. “They’re all humans. Every single one. They’ve never seen a mutant or a ghoul or… or even a _dog_ before. They’re not going to _understand_ , they won’t—they won’t be kind…” Her shoulders tremble, hands shaking like leaves as she clutches the front of his shirt.

His hand rests lightly over her back, spanning her shoulder blades. “And I should let you endure their unkindness alone?”

She pulls herself in, wrapping herself in his embrace. “Thank you.”

A few moments to collect herself, and they enter that narrow passage in the hill. The gate creaks ominously behind them, shutting them in darkness before Jinx flicks on her Pip-Boy light. Staring at the rough walls and ceiling above, Fawkes’ skin crawls with claustrophobia. Jinx, at ease in the subway tunnels and on that initial mad journey into his vault, seems little better. Her gaze flicks frantically from one shadow to the next, near-vibrating out of her skin with suppressed tremors. And he remembers the tale of the labyrinth, and wonders if it would have been crueler if Icarus had been forced to return to his cage after having tasted the wind and sun.

Jinx’s nightmares aren’t the only ghosts haunting these walls. Dogmeat pauses to sniff at a trio of skeletons, one still clutching a sign that reads “LET US IN, ASSHOLES.”

A vast circular door blocks the end of the tunnel and Jinx immediately goes to the control panel mounted beside it. She whispers “Amata,” voice tight and quivering with emotion, and then bites her lip as if unsure whether the name is sweet or poison. Enters the code, and Fawkes resists flinching at the dull alarm as the metal gears whir out of place. The door groans as it slides open, the pained sound echoing through the small passage.

The first room they enter is a mess, boxes and barricades strewn about, far more disorganized than Fawkes would have expected from an active vault. Jinx steps forward, holding a knife loosely in one hand. A knife, not her rifle, and he thinks of asking _why_ before she stops cold, staring at a body on the floor.

“Jim Wilkins.” She swallows, averting her eyes. “We used to play Grognak the Barbarian together.”

Rustling sounds catch her attention, and Dogmeat lopes off to investigate. The hiss of an expiring radroach reaches their ears, but Jinx goes to inspect it anyway. She returns with a terse “Stanley’s dead too.” Swiping her fingers over the Pip-Boy on her wrist, she whispers, “He gave me this for my tenth birthday.”

“What do you think happened here?”

“Radroaches aside… they were always nuisances, not real dangers. Bodies. The Overseer going mad—civil war, Fawkes. I don’t know how many of my friends are dead already. Butch, Amata—“

“Then we will help the living.”

“Yeah. No weapons—I mean, the security officers will have guns, but everyone else will have knives, maybe baseball bats at best.” Her eyes search his, pleading. “They’re not fighters. They’re not _used_ to the wastes. They’re not _killers_ , Fawkes.”

At least two corpses would disagree with her, but Fawkes nods acceptance. “Your knife, then?”

“Only if I need it. And hopefully, not even then.” She frowns, lowering the blade and staring at the door barring the way farther into the vault. “Better than threatening with my plasma rifle.” Kicking aside a helmet lying on the ground, she then opens the door.

A dark-haired man in light security armor halts them as soon as they enter, gun raised. “Stop right there. I don’t know how you got in here, but… hold on…” His expression shifts from stern to astonished, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait a minute! It’s you! I hardly recognized you with all the dust and grime from out there.”

“Still me, Officer Gomez. No matter how much dirt I got caked on me.” Jinx smiles, though with darting eyes and the knife still held in one hand. Fawkes notes that Gomez does not lower his gun either. And Jinx is—well, by Wasteland standards she’s quite clean. She just washes down when she can, brushes her teeth with scavenged toothpaste and her little finger, she smells—not unpleasant, though Fawkes admits he is not unbiased. She smells of dust and sweat, a human tang and something sharp and spicy in the back of his throat, her own personal fragrance. Though his FEV-enhanced senses mean he may be more aware of that than the typical human.

In contrast, Gomez is sterile. He smells of soap and sour fear, with little of the musty odor he has come to associate with ‘humanity.’

“Guess that explains how you got that door open. You’ve got more experience with it than most everyone down here combined.”

Jinx lowers her knife, tucking it into her belt and raising her hands. “Please, I need to talk with Amata. I got her message.”

Officer Gomez averts his weapon, the pistol now aimed at the floor. He does not actually holster it, but Jinx’s breathing grows more even nonetheless. “Amata’s message? I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’d keep that under your hat, for her sake. She could get in real trouble if people found out she sent you a message.” He chuckles, though the humor does not reach his eyes. “So could I, just for talking with you now.”

“What sort of trouble are you talking about?”

He releases a long breath, searching her face for something Fawkes does not comprehend. Whatever it was though, he seems to have found it—and then holsters his weapon with relief. “Let me bring you up to speed. It seems it’s been a mighty long time.” He wets his lips, exhaling sharply through his nose. “The night you and your dad left, everything went crazy. Between the bugs and the confusion, we lost a lot of people.”

Jinx flinches. “I tried not to—“

“I know you did.” His lips twist, too sad to be a smile. “I know you. But when your dad opened up that gate, he let loose a whole lot of crap.” He coughs, covering his mouth with one hand. “If you’ll pardon my language.”

“Dad never meant to—“ and her voice catches, but she continues resolutely, “He would be horrified to know all that.” A pause. “If he were still alive.” She bites her lip, containing any further response.

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.” To his credit, Gomez looks genuinely shocked, cheeks blanched and eyes wide. He reaches out to Jinx, despite all the Wasteland grime and the strangeness of her new appearance, resting his hand on her shoulder. She hiccups, and that seems the signal to give a loose squeeze. “Regardless of how things turned out down here, he was a good friend. I always figured he’d do well outside. Matter of fact, a lot of folks started thinking he had the right idea.” He releases her, shoulders slumping. “He usually did. So if it was safe out there, why stay down here forever?” Another deep sigh. “Well, the Overseer didn’t like that one bit, and started cracking down on that sort of thought. Guess he didn’t plan on you coming back.”

Jinx manages a deadpan “no one does,” before giving a shaky laugh, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “So what now?”

“I probably ought to put you under arrest and take you in to the Overseer,” and his gaze lingers on her half-shaved scalp, the thin scars peeping past the sleeves of her jacket, then Dogmeat and Fawkes, “but frankly, I know better than to try that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jinx mutters.

Gomez elects to ignore that. “Meanwhile, some of your old friends think opening the Vault is a good idea. I bet those rebels would like a word with you. Now, more than ever. Of course, if you want, you can just walk away as if you were never here. Out of respect for your dad, I won’t even tell anyone I saw you.”

Fawkes knows her response even before she speaks. She cannot leave, not when she’d be guilty of all the good she failed to do.

But she purses her lips, asking, “Wait, why can’t the rebels just leave?”

“It’s not that they want to _leave_. It’s that they want to open the door and interact with the rest of the world. But that would risk the whole vault.”

Jinx snorts, raking her fingers through her hair. ”I’ll see what I can do about all of this.”

“Well, okay. Just be careful down here. The vault’s changed, I tell you.”

She bares her teeth. “So have I.”

The vault is déjà vu for Fawkes, the layout bringing back strange, half-submerged memories similar to Vault 87. Jinx moves quietly, the knife held loosely in one hand as she sidles along. Not a full stealth approach—that would be impossible due to his company—but without the casualness of her previous walk. Dogmeat stays mercifully silent, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose as he trods behind Jinx.

So much for their picnic.

They hear the altercation before they see it, an old man’s quavering voice warning someone to stay back. A young man shouts back, something about “you can’t cage a Tunnel Snake!” before shots fire. Fawkes catches a glimpse of the young man fleeing, wearing a black leather jacket similar to Jinx’s. He steals a glance at the logo on her back—definitely a match. He wonders at the significance.

“You almost shot Freddie!” Jinx exclaims, staring at the man in the security uniform. His eyes widen, staring at Fawkes and raising his pistol, but Jinx bats his hand aside. “Officer Taylor, you _know_ me! It’s Jinx!”

“Jennifer? What did you do to your _hair_? You—you’re _filthy!_ ”

“Not important. _Talk to me_.”

Stammering, the man talks to her about the rebel faction and the chaos in the vault. She speaks soothingly, but the man’s horrified gaze keeps drifting up to that scarlet mop. For whatever reason, Jinx’s hair caught his fascination even more than Fawkes or Dogmeat. When she finally says goodbye, Fawkes catches a muttered ‘good riddance’ before Jinx leads the way to the rebel base. At first he wonders at how she knows the way, but a glance at the signs confirms that the security and administration offices are on the upper levels, so it would be unlikely that the rebels could have taken those areas.

They pass through a ruined and darkened diner, the jukebox knocked aside. She pauses just a moment, staring at the booths before biting her lip. Then she continues without comment. Fawkes wonders at the memories here but decides to ask her once they’re outside. Jinx leads right, up the stairs and past another impromptu barricade, a metal shelf knocked against the wall. Behind it is another man in a jacket. Medium height and build, with dark hair lovingly styled. He holds a gun in one hand, but rather than reach for her weapon, Jinx’s face lights up.

“Butch!”

“ _Nosebleed_?” He gawps at her, then lets out a raucous whoop as she barrels into his arms, spinning wildly and lifting her off the ground. “Damn, look who’s come waltzing back into the Vault! You’re a fucking _mess_ , babe, but that hair’s wild! Who did your ‘do? And what’s with the freak show?” He grins up at Fawkes, no malice despite the words. “And is that— _shit,_ is that a wolf?!”

“He’s not a freak, Butch. He’s my friend. Fawkes, this is Butch. Butch, Fawkes. And that’s Dogmeat. He’s _not_ a wolf, he’s my dog.”

Fawkes inclines his head. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Butch’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “Whoa, he _talks_?”

“I know, I’m amazed when _you_ put two words together too,” Jinx says, rolling her eyes. “Look, if you’re done staring—“

“Is that what happens to guys who wander around outside? How come you ain’t big and green?” he demands, setting her down and raking his gaze from floor to hair. If it had been Jericho examining her so thoroughly Fawkes thinks he would be offended on her behalf, but their obvious familiarity soothes rather than grates.

“Long story. Look, Butch, what’s going on down here?”

He drops his arm over her shoulders, looping his other hand’s thumb into his pocket. “C’mon, babe. You ain’t stupid. You had to have heard about the changes since you left, right? The deaths, the lies, the whole Overseer lockdown thing? Ringing any bells?”

“I saw Officer Taylor shooting at Freddie,” she says softly.

He snorts. “Man, they’d rushed in here long ago if they didn’t know I stole one of their guns from when they issued martial law! But the whole shitstorm started when your dad left. At least that’s what everyone _says_ , but—babe, you ain’t ever been nothing but honest with me, right?” His grip tightens, his side-long glance beseeching rather than demanding.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

“Why did he _leave_?” He flinches at the accusation in his own voice. “I mean, it ain’t a mystery why _you_ left—the goons were all out and with Jonas and all dead—but he just… everything fell apart after he did. And I know I ain’t smart like you or Amata—“

“—Butch, you’re _plenty_ smart, you’re the one who taught me computers—“

“—shit, lemme finish. But it fucking _stinks_ how everyone says that things fell apart _because_ he left. If our whole Vault broke down just because one guy decided to up and leave, even if he was our doctor—we weren’t that stable to begin with, were we? So why’s everyone trying to pretend otherwise?”

“Dystopia was nibbling on the edges long before,” Fawkes observes. “A stable society does not schism so easily.”

“What he said. The Vault’s been _open_ before, Butch. That’s where my dad came from. And everyone’s just been lying to us, trying to pretend otherwise—“

“So he came in back then, right? All medical and smart and with a baby just the right age to fit in with the rest of us? So why did he _leave_?” Butch rallies as Jinx shoots him a glare. “I ain’t accusing or nothing. I’m just saying what the others are saying, babe.”

Jinx takes a deep breath, holding it in with her cheeks puffed and her body tense. Fawkes can almost hear her mental count-down before she releases a gusty exhale, gently pushing Butch away. “Long story, and he’s dead. Short version is he was trying to make the world better.”

“Yeah, and ‘the greater good’ is always just another _fucking_ excuse—“

“Butch, we can talk about that later,” she says wearily. “What can I do to help down here? I got Amata’s signal.”

“Figured. I was the one who helped her set it up,” he adds with pride. “You can talk with Amata for the details; they’re all set up by the clinic. But long story short, we all wanna get outta this dump.”

“I thought you just wanted to open up the Vault again…?”

“Maybe that’s Amata’s plan, but I wanna _leave_ , babe.”

“Why?”

He stops cold, lips twisting into a defiant sneer even as his eyes betray him. “Because _anything_ up there has got to be better than a lifetime of the same thing down here.” He gulps, but where Jinx would paint a smile over that aching uncertainty, Butch buckles down into his delinquent façade. A flick of his fingers produces a comb from his pocket and he aggressively starts fussing at his hair. “Think about it, man. Down here, I’ll always be stuck with the same job, with the same food—“

“—with the same people, _forever_ ,” Jinx finishes, shuddering.

“You and your dad had the right idea: get out of this pit and make your own life.”

“The Wasteland’s not… Butch, it’s _dangerous_ out there.”

“You are making it okay, ain’t ya?”

“Check out my scars.” She shrugs herself out of the leather jacket, passing it to Fawkes before she starts mapping the constellation of marks spanning her skin. Fawkes watches mutely, thinking of the lazy days and the warm nights they’ve spent together. The way her body speaks even when she is silent, the little echoes of memory etched in her flesh. She never laid herself so bare as she does now, jabbing a slick keloid patch on the outside of her upper arm. “See this? Plasma rifle. Talon mercs.” Her finger jabs over a pink starburst of tissue, pale against her brown skin. “That one? Bit of shrapnel from an exploding car. That was… not fun. Pulling it out, soaking it in alcohol, hauling myself back to Doc Church and dealing with his lecture. The lecture was almost as painful as the injury. And this…”

“I get it, I _get it_. You got hurt a lot. But _you_ can’t make a decision for me, babe. That’s _my_ call. I ain’t ever gonna cage you up like a bird. So don’t try and do that to me, all right?”

She reels back, guilt flashing in her eyes. “Butch, you’ve never even _seen_ a bird.”

“Don’t make it less true. Birds gotta fly. I know you. You’re making a helluva storm out there, flapping your way into every kind of mess ‘cuz you want to make the world a better place. So don’t cage me up. Or if you think I can’t make it, then _teach me_.”

They stand scant inches apart, close enough to seize one another and wrestle to the ground—close enough to kiss. Just two teens still trying to save each other.

“Fine. I will. But let’s clean up this mess first.”

He grins, twirling his comb before stashing it back in place. “Figures, goody two-shoes. I’m gonna just stand guard here. But talk with Amata. She’s the brains now.”

They leave Butch behind, the young man lighting a cigarette. The acrid smoke lingers in the back of Fawkes’ nose but fades as Jinx leads down another passage, past more barricades and to a large room with mattresses strewn about the perimeter. More teenagers lurk in here, clumped into pairs or trios and talking amongst themselves. An older woman sits back on one of the mattresses, eyes closed but flickering fitfully as Jinx enters. The quiet conversations stop as Jinx and Fawkes enter, horrified gazes ricocheting from dog to mutant to former Vault girl. Jinx grins, ear to ear with her shoulders back, a bantam strut as she calls, “Hey. Miss me?”

It is easy to miss the tremor in her voice.

But then a tall woman with dark hair tied back in a messy knot steps forward, flinging her arms around Jinx in a desperate embrace. “Oh my God, you’re back! You got my message and actually came back!” A prayer, a blessing—she holds on tight, rocking back and forth, clutching Jinx as if afraid to let go.

“I came as soon as I heard you were in trouble.” Jinx raises her hand, circling her arm around the other woman’s waist and holding close. Even Dogmeat seems to want to embrace her, circling them with a low whine and bumping his nose against the back of the other woman’s leg.

“Oh, thank you! Everything’s gone crazy since you left, and now that you’re back, you can help set things straight.” Her friend (or more than a friend? Fawkes sees the way they fit, the way Jinx sighs and how her nose tickles the other’s throat) makes a choked sound, half sigh and half sob. “You were always a _fixer_.”

“You saved my life back then, Amata. The least I can do is help out now.”

 _“My first crush. Didn’t work out, but at least we stayed friends. She helped me escape the vault when everything went crazy.”_ There is history there, but that is Jinx’s to share. If she chooses. If she would _want_ to share, with her childhood sweetheart there and warmer than the whiskey-burn of memory.

If she would be happier with her first love, how could he bar her way?

The unhappy thought distracts him as Amata continues, and he shamefully corrals his attention back to the present.

“…it was bad enough they died because my father was trying to keep the door closed, but then I found out it was all to protect a lie! I found out the Vault wasn’t always closed! They’ve lied to us about it for our entire lives!”

“How did you find that out?” Jinx forces herself back from Amata, though still holding hands.

“After that night, I heard Wally’s father say we should never have taken you or your dad into the Vault. I found out the Vault used to be open, but for some reason, they closed it off when we were babies and swore to hide it had ever happened.” Amata takes a deep breath, staring into Jinx’s eyes. “But keeping that lie meant Jonas’ death. And even though we know the truth the Overseer still won’t let us make our own decisions!”

“Absolute authority is hard to give up, isn’t it?” Jinx murmurs.

Amata’s high-pitched giggle ends in another choked sob. “It’s not like we want to abandon the Vault, or anything! Most of us had accepted that the outside was certain death and things would always stay the same down here. But now we know they don’t have to be!”

“Why is your dad so invested in keeping the Vault closed?”

Amata shakes her head, squeezing Jinx’s hands so tightly Fawkes is surprised not to hear bone creak. “I just don’t know. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting us, but all he’s really doing is condemning us.” A soft, melancholy pause, the woman gathering her thoughts about her like a cloak. “I thought parents were supposed to want a better world for their children?Well, there’s a new world waiting right outside that door. And we’re not going to give up until we can reach it.”

“Look, Amata—I swear, I can talk with your dad. Maybe I can reason with him.”

“Thank goodness for that. No matter what I say, he just doesn’t listen. He just spends all day up in his office. But you’ve actually been outside, so you can tell him what it’s like with firsthand experience! Just… please don’t do anything rash,” and her voice breaks as she pleads “or hurt him, alright?”

Jinx smiles, crooked and painful. “You know violence just isn’t my style, Amata. Don’t worry.”

 “I should have remembered. I was just worried— I don’t know, maybe your time outside had changed you. I mean…” Her voice trails off uncertainly as she attempts that peculiar sidelong gawk that Fawkes knows is not intended to cause offense, but he is too strange and foreign (and _mutant_ , too ‘other,’ too much a sign of how the world has changed outside the vault) for her to hide that shock.

“I changed the hair, but I’m still the same person.” Jinx lets go of Amata, instead choosing to stand beside him. Her arm links around his, squeezing possessively. A small, fierce joy fills his chest. “This is Fawkes. He’s human too. Just… changed a bit.”

“Nice to meet you Fawkes. I’m Amata.” She wets her lips, so plainly at a loss that Fawkes takes pity and dips his head.

“It is a pleasure to meet one of Jinx’s friends. She speaks fondly of you.”

“Thank you.” Her attention flees back to Jinx. “Good luck talking with my dad. Let me know when you change his mind.”

 _When_ , not if. Fawkes marvels at her faith.

Jinx’s steps echo like memory as she turns, leaving the room and its prying eyes. Despite the months since she’s been here, her path is certain. Too deliberate for a run, too erratic for a mere walk—her hands swing like pistons as she bounces up towards the Overseer’s office. Hyperkinetic, energy crackling over uncertainty and if she ever stops moving she might succumb to the nightmares that claimed so many out in the wastes (and the darkness of labyrinths and the horrors that even now he’s not sure whether they are dreams or true memory echoing through the quiet hours of night) and it drives her forward, steam-rolling past a square-jawed man with a gun who raises it and snarls “you never should have left, kid,” but the ‘kid’ she was, little Jennifer with the clean face and the clipped wings is no longer here. This is _Jinx_ , hero and wanderer and even now, dressed in a leather jacket and armed with a simple combat knife she somehow draws more attention than the eight foot mutant behind her.

“Now, we’ll make sure nobody ever leaves again!” makes for remarkably poor last words, since Jinx sweeps her arm up, forearm smacking into his elbow and twisting his line of fire while she slips the knife high, a vicious stab through the neck and shoving him into the wall as he bleeds crimson onto the floor. All before even Dogmeat could do more than growl.

“Dammit, Mr Wilkin.”

She sounds so tired, dropping him so he collapses on the floor.

“That was extremely dangerous,” Fawkes observes.

Jinx cackles, brittle laughter echoing off the walls in broken shards. “No more so than activating the purifier. Just… more immediate.”

“Who taught you that disarm?”

The skin around her eyes crinkles as she grins. “Jericho, believe it or not.” She crouches, wiping her knife clean on the man’s sleeve. Unlike the raiders and Talon mercenaries she’s disposed of, she does not search the body. Perhaps because even now, he is ‘Mr Wilkin’ rather than yet another attempt on her life.

“That was unusually altruistic of him.”

“It wasn’t. I gave him two bottles of whiskey in exchange for lessons.” She licks her fingers, lips thinning as she shuts the dead man’s eyes. “He says I’m still lousy, but… better lousy fighting than being a victim. Not ready to see if my metal skull can stand bullets, and Mr Wilkin was never the type of guy to pull a gun unless he meant to use it.” Standing and clapping her hands as if to rid them of invisible dirt—and will those dainty hands ever be truly clean?—she mutters, “Figures he’d waste breath on _talking_ at me.”

“Perhaps you should offer your next would-be murderer constructive criticism.”

“I did.” She turns, averting her gaze from the corpse. “There’s… two types of people who will _talk_ at you. One wants to gloat or do bad things. Real bad things. But that’s something you can take advantage of.” The knife’s tip rests against the edge of her belt, but she does not actually sheathe it. Fawkes eyes it nervously, thinking that one slip and she would disembowel herself, but relaxes as she flips it in her hand. “Jericho told me once that the reason the Regulators are worse than the raiders is that a raider won’t try to kill you right away, necessarily. If they want victims, you gotta be _alive_ and kicking and screaming. So you got a chance to survive, fight it out.” A smile ghosts about her lips as she continues. “Now a Regulator will just kill you. Short and sweet. No games.”

“If someone wishes to kill you, your best hope is that they are a bad person.”

“Yeah. But that’s just one type of talking.” Her face turns up, finger tapping the corner of her mouth in wry acknowledgment of her own verbosity. “The other kind of talker wants to be talked _out_ of things. Or maybe talk you into it. A stammering man with a gun who _approaches_ , all clumsy and awkward instead of just letting the bullets travel for him, that guy isn’t really interested in hurting you.” She rolls her shoulders back, jutting her chin. “I like to call it out when I can. There’s enough death out there without me adding to it.”

He spares a glance for the hallway ahead, wondering what sort of man lies at the end of it. “Do you think the Overseer will talk?”

“He raised Amata. He cares for the people in the vault, in his own pig-headed way.” Her hand trembles as she walks forward, feet dragging against the metal floor. “I hope he’s the second kind of talker.”

When they enter the office, Fawkes is struck by how _normal_ he looks. Surely the de factor ruler of this den of nightmares should look monstrous. Grey hair, lines about his eyes, a salt and pepper beard and moustache, heavy on the salt—nothing to suggest why the bravest person he knows has to clench her fists, nails digging into the palm, to keep from shaking.

“Mr Almodovar—“

“I am the Overseer.” He blinks at Fawkes and Dogmeat, but does not comment beyond a faint sneer.

Something about his cold response makes her relax. The second kind of talker. Her voice gains strength as she straightens up and sheathes her blade with an off-handed gesture. “You are no longer _my_ Overseer.”

He snorts, arms crossed in front of him. “And here I thought you were trying to slink back in, like a teen missing curfew. Not that you could. You’re tainted.” The weight of his gaze lands on Fawkes, heavy with judgment and unafraid, perhaps seeing Fawkes as a mere extension of Jinx’s own changes. A symptom of her ‘disease.’

With her lips curled over her teeth, voice tight with strain, she counters, “With your leadership, no one in this Vault has much of a future.”

He chuckles. “That would be where you’re wrong. By locking down this Vault, I’m protecting its future. In fact, I was protecting its future when I had to make those unpleasant choices the night you and your father abandoned us.”

“Trying to claim ‘the greater good’ is just another excuse.” The bite to those words makes ‘greater good’ sound like a dirty word, one worse than the casual ‘damn’ she drops with such ease.

“If anyone’s to blame for the unpleasantness, it’s him.”

Jinx shakes her head, hands clasped behind her back. “Too late to justify the murders, Mr Almodovar. They were never threats.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had to make difficult decisions. Like someone who‘s never had to lead.” It echoes with the cadence of a well-worn litany, and Fawkes sees the fatigue etched on that face alongside the creases of age. “Jonas was leaving with your father. Their departure would lead to others leaving as well. And before you know it, half the Vault would be gone. And then, our home—the last safe, pure bastion of humanity—would be reduced to a lonely handful of aging hold-outs, too few to continue.”

Her voice is soft, almost gentle as she coaxes, “You’re not protecting your people. You’re destroying them.” Her hands relax and she reaches forward before pausing, dropping her hand to her hip. “Can’t you see that?”

“I’m simply keeping them safe and untouched by the war above. The real dangers are the rebels and insurgents who insist on risking all of our lives just to die out there in the Wastes. If they weren’t trying to throw our lives away like this, we could go back to the peaceful life we once had.” He pauses, muttering “everyone would be happy again,” as if to reassure himself rather than Jinx.

“Few of us actually _were_ happy,” Jinx says, soft and gentle like coaxing a stray dog. And unavoidable simile for Fawkes, since Dogmeat pads forward, tongue lolling out and butting his head against her leg. “The rebels are upset because you _lied_ to them about the outside.”

“They have to understand that we did that to keep them from going outside and getting killed. To keep them from making the same mistake our generation did when we were their age. Some of us already lost loved ones out there long ago.”

Jinx wets her lips, angling herself as if preparing to duck. “Is that what happened to Amata’s mother?”

Mr Almodovar—or the Overseer—whichever he is, his roles blurring but perhaps not as interchangeable as he would like to pretend—stares at Jinx, color draining from his face. His eyes narrow, lips pressed into a thin line as he growls, “And what business is that of yours?”

“I have more experience than anyone else in this vault about what’s going on outside,” she says softly. Her lips curl up, a tentative smile offered as a gift. “They call me the Wanderer out there, you know. I’ve travelled more ground than just about anybody. I see things. I learn things. And I don’t want us to lose any more people either. So I think I got a solution for your problem.”

“To fix what you started?” He sounds weary rather than dismissive, and Fawkes dares allow himself to hope. “Go ahead and humor me.”

“You need to open the Vault.” She forces her next words out before Mr Almodovar can do more than protest “ _what do you”_ and overrides him with, “You simply don’t have enough people to stay isolated down here forever. Genetic diversity _alone_ is dwindling. Look at how many boys and girls you have left.”

 “We have enough genetic diversity for… a few more generations.” Spoken like a confession, light slanting across his face as he rubs his temple. “We’re the last bastion of pure humanity, and we’re doomed.”

“Humanity isn’t about pure genetics.” She reaches out, grasping his hand between thumb and forefinger, smiling like sunlight. “It’s about never giving up hope, even now.”

Mr Almodovar deflates, pulling his hand free. “I wish I could share your optimism. My way won’t save our Vault’s mission. But if I let them contact the outside world, I might be able to save its inhabitants.”

 _People over principles_ , Fawkes thinks. Something Jinx, people-focused and friendly as she is, must have always understood.

“But I’m not the one to lead them in that. I’m stepping down as Overseer. I’ll tell Amata I can think of no more appropriate leader than she.” Decision made (and Fawkes thinks this _must_ have been something he was already contemplating, judging by how readily he acquiesced) Mr Almodovar wastes no time stepping into action. He grasps the microphone, tersely announcing, “This is the Overseer. We have reached truce with the rebels. Cease all hostile interactions.” Then he leaves at a brisk pace too dignified to be called a ‘run.’

Rather than follow immediately, Jinx lingers in the office. “Too easy. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she mutters. Drumming her fingers on the desk, she adds, “Peace through talking. And only had to kill one person to do it.” Bitter lies so close to sweet, like the rind on a fruit.

“Do you truly think you could have talked that man down?”

“No. But I wish I could have.” She sits on the desk, toes dangling inches from the floor. “Let’s give them a couple more minutes. Amata deserves that much.”

“At least you were able to broker a mostly peaceful resolution.”

“That’s what I tell myself.” She flips her hand, palm up and extended, and he recognizes the silent plea for comfort. So he holds her hand, thumb pressing the cup of her palm. “Ends and means are _not_ inseparable. Even having the best of intentions does not give you an excuse.”

Fawkes can think of no response for that, instead contenting himself with holding her hand. She does not check her Pip-Boy, but he watches her breathe slow and easy, each inhalation calmer than the last until she finally slides off the desk. Her internal chronometer satisfied, they retrace their steps back to the rebel base.

Amata leans against the wall, hand on her temple while about her people attempt to regain some sense of normalcy. She smiles weak and wan as Jinx enters. “I… I just heard. My father says he’s stepping down as Overseer. He won’t tell me why, but I have to assume it’s something you said to him.”

Jinx swallows, biting her lip before butting her head against Amata’s shoulder. The taller woman’s arm slips around her in a loose embrace. ”You both care about the Vault’s residents,” Jinx mumbles, cheek pressed against her friend. “Just in different ways.”

“It’s hard to forgive what he’s done, but I suppose I can understand why he did it.” Fawkes catches the echo of Jinx’s pained realization, and wonders how many of these struggling vault children deal with the same parental betrayal. “I’m planning on opening the Vault, this time for good. It’s a bright new day for the Vault, but I’m afraid there’s one thing that has to change.”

And she must know what’s coming, there’s no way she can mistake the dull finality weighing Amata’s words, but Jinx smiles and seals her fate as she murmurs, “Whatever it is, I’m glad to help.”

“I know you are, and on behalf of the Vault, I thank you for all you’ve done.” Still Jinx smiles, though it’s stiff and jagged on the edges because if she unbends enough to even _breathe_ she’ll crumple in on herself while Amata twists the knife. “But there are still many who blame you for everything that happened. So I have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry, but the situation is just too delicate for you to stay.” Amata dares to squeeze her close, arms like welcome, like warmth and belonging—and Fawkes has a dazed feeling of double-synchrony. In another life, another set of circumstances, perhaps Jinx could have been happy with her childhood love. But this is the only world they inhabit and they must make the best of it. “Please, if you really want to help the Vault, you have to go.”

Jinx laughs, bright and sharp with all the edges of a broken heart.

“Leave? Is that what you want?”

“Not what I want, but what the vault needs. Please.” Amata clasps Jinx’s hands in her own, close enough to kiss—

And Jinx breaks away. “Fine.” A brittle smile. “Always the greater good, huh?”

“I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“I know.” Jinx’s eyes remain bleak despite her pasted-on smile. “Look, quick advice. Bottle caps are currency out there.  And here, let me upload some map data,” she adds, pressing her Pip-Boy near Amata’s and clattering over the buttons, “because Megaton’s the closest settlement and trade will be your lifeblood. You’ve got goods I _know_ will be popular for that. Soap. Strawberries. Veggies from the hydroponics.” She sighs, shoulder slumping as she curls in on herself. “Amata, can I have one last favor?”

“Anything.”

“I want a shower.” She chuckles at Amata’s startled laugh. “I’m serious! With the orange blossom soap. And some crayons, plus a jar of strawberry jelly if there’s any left.” Leaning against Fawkes, blithely ignoring a few surprised gawks, she adds, “Fawkes, you might like a shower too. One of the little luxuries of home, right?”

Amata smiles, clasping her hands behind her while tension flows out of her shoulders. “I think we can manage that.”

“Thanks.” Jinx swallows, carding her fingers through her unruly hair. “So you know—I live in Megaton. If things ever change, you can find me there.”

“Understood. If you want, you can use the shower in your—what used to be your quarters. We’ve moved things around, but there should be some fresh bars of soap under the sink. And I’ll be by with the other items.”

“Sure. I’ll just revisit the old clinic first.” Jinx’s lips twist into something a shade too sardonic to be amusement. “Figure I’ll pick up that old ‘Alpha and Omega’ hanging.”

“Fair warning, we tried programing Andy to be a doctor after—well. It’s a mess in there.”

“Duly noted.”

In hindsight, Amata’s warning was insufficient. The ‘doctor’ bot would be more appropriately called a ‘butcher.’ Jinx is faintly green about the gills as she steps over the mess, ignoring the robot’s greeting and making for an embroidered hanging. Using just her finger tips, she lifts it away from the wall, exposing a safe. She peers at the safe, then the homily.

“’I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. Revelation 21:6.’ I’d burn this thing, but think I’d regret it,” she mutters. “Might as well see what’s in the safe.”

Fawkes takes the homey little cross-stitch, watching Jinx ease her trusty screwdriver and a bobby pin into place to pop the lock in less time than it would take most people to turn the key. He rather enjoys watching her do that; in much the same way as watching a master painter practice their craft, there is beauty in the certainty of her movement. Inside the safe is a small recording with a penciled script ‘ _Home Sweet Home_.’ The handwriting looks familiar, and with a jolt Fawkes recalls the ‘ _Better Days’_ recording back in Megaton.

Jinx must recognize the writing too, since she bites her lip and reverentially tucks it into her pack. She exhales loud and gusty, rolling her shoulders back when Butch pops his head into the clinic.

“Hey Nosebleed, good job on making that asshole step down. What’s this about being banished?”

“Better good of the vault, Butchie.”

“ _Bullshit_. You’re the closest fucking thing to a hero we’ve got here, and if that bitch is turning you out—“

Butch doesn’t get to finish that sentence since Jinx wheels sharply, grabbing him by his jacket and shoving him into the wall. Her nostrils flare, eyes narrowed as she growls, “Don’t you _ever_ call her a bitch again.”

Hands high, voice pitched low and soothing, Butch murmurs, “Hey, _hey_. I’ll ease up, but I don’t get why you still stick up for her. She’s left you cold, babe.”

“We all do what we have to, to get by,” Jinx mutters, releasing Butch. “She’s got to be a leader, and I’m not a real stable element around here.”

“Fuck that.” Changing from defiant to frantic in one breath, he asks, “Are we cool? You still taking me with you?”

“Sure. Just grabbing a shower first. Come on, we can talk.”

Butch and Jinx wander ahead, Fawkes trailing with Dogmeat. They walk side by side, Jinx’s shoulder bumping into Butch’s arm as they push back and forth in playful banter.

“Glad you still kept the jacket, Nosebleed.”

“Glad you gave it to me. Did you ever get together with Susie…?”

“Nah, not when Stevie’s being such a shit about everything. You finally get to bang any cute chicks out in the Wasteland?”

“Eh, there’s cute girls, but,” and she shoots a look over her shoulder, grinning at Fawkes and he feels his cheeks flush hot, averting his gaze and still embarrassed as she purrs, “I’m dating a pretty cute mutant.”

Butch whoops, loud and riotous and his laughter only amplifies the burn on Fawkes’ cheeks. “Good one, Nosebleed. But really, the dames are cute or are they all irradiated out there?”

“Some cute ones, and if you get lonely you can always pay Nova for a throw. But I’m serious, Butch. I’m dating Fawkes.”

She leaves him gaping as she enters a small living space, peeling herself out of her clothes and shedding them on her way to the shower. Butch is apparently used to this—or simply doesn’t care—instead staring at Fawkes with renewed horror.

“No shit?” He scratches behind his ear, looking up and jaw dropping. “No _shit_. Fawkes, man, say she’s joking.”

“No,” Fawkes murmurs, ill at ease with Butch’s disbelief.

Butch flaps his hand weakly, mouth hanging before he protests, “But how the hell—I mean, you’re fucking _huge_. How the hell do you even—“

“Do you _really_ want the answer, Butch?” Fawkes hears the water starting, Jinx’s voice echoing through the shower. Steam and sweet citrus fill the small room, wafting out to where the two men stand. “Because I could sit down with you and explain—“

“ _No_ ,” Fawkes says firmly, ears sizzling. “That is a private matter.”

“No _shit_ , she would,” Butch groans, slumping against the wall and sliding down until he sits on the floor. “More power to you man, whatever. You two take care of each other and all that shit. But _shit_.” Just when Fawkes starts to think that word’s the extent of his vocabulary, Butch adds “ _fuck_ ” for good measure. “Like, don’t take this the wrong way, man, but I always figured she’d end up with a girl. And you ain’t look _nothing_ like a dame.”

Fawkes nods in mute agreement as Jinx muses, “Funny, thought I’d have ended up marrying you if I got stuck in the vault forever.”

“Hell, we mighta got married. Maybe knocked out a few kids together, but we were never gonna be happily ever after.” Butch pulls a cigarette lighter from his pocket, flicking it idly. “But better off marrying my best friend than any of the other crazy dames in this vault.” Shooting a sidelong look at Fawkes, he mumbles, “Hey man, you cool? Jinx and I ain’t ever been like that, just so you know.”

“It is not my concern, even if you two shared romantic or sexual history.”

Jinx’s laughter echoes off the walls in a wave of silver. “You know just the right things to say. Hey, wanna see if we can both fit in the shower…?”

“ _Fuck_ , you two!” Butch buries his head in his hands.

“Let us not embarrass your friend any further.”

A loud raspberry is her response, Jinx emerging with a towel wrapped around her. She glows, the shower jolting alive the color in her hair and the dark shine of her skin, incandescent and effervescent. She looks so _alive_ , thrumming with vitality like the heartaches of the vault only needed a shower to sluice them away.

“Feels a shame to go back in those dirty old clothes, but eh. Whatever. Your turn.”

Fawkes enters the bathroom, shutting the door behind him because unlike Jinx, he harbors his modesty. Turning the knob, he is startled by the spray of chill water before quickly realizing he can adjust the temperature. The bar of pale orange soap is doubtlessly substantial enough for Jinx, but feels like little more than a sliver in his hand as he washes himself off. Still, he can see why Jinx missed showers so. It is much more refreshing than the simple sponge baths they must make do with even in Megaton. Though now that water is no longer a precious commodity… gears turn, thinking of how to reroute the pipes and considering how they might fit a simple shower into their Megaton home. Heating would be his main concern…

He spends a few happy minutes daydreaming about plumbing, rinsing the lather off his skin before turning off the water. It takes him several towels to get fully dry—a luxury he would normally be quite abashed about but the vault seems as if they can spare the toiletries—and dresses himself once more. The fabric which had felt so clean before now feels slightly gritty over his freshly washed figure, but it is but a minor inconvenience.

Opening the door, he finds Jinx carefully fitting two jars of red substance into her pack, swathing them in bandages and padding with a spare shirt.

“The strawberry jelly?” he asks.

“Mhm. And got some crayons for Maggie and Harden. Ready to go?”

“Wherever you may lead.”


	22. Evergreen Mills

Butch stumbles out in the light, shading his eyes with one hand as he blanches.

“It’s so fucking _bright_ ,” he groans, eyes narrowed to slits as he gawps at the barren landscape.

“The sun’s a heck of a lightbulb, eh Butchie?” Jinx murmurs, squeezing his shoulder.

Nodding, the boy gulps. “Fuck. And there’s so much _space_.” He takes one step, then another— then stumbles to his knees, staring up at the grey sky as if expecting it to tumble about his ears at any moment. “How do you _stand_ it?”

“One step at a time.” She hooks her hand under his arm. “C’mon. We’re going to Megaton—I’ve got digs there, and we can set you up for a bit. You’re welcome to kick around, you know.”

“Hell yeah. For a start.” Leaning heavily on his friend, his gaze still drifts skyward with awe and trepidation. “Gonna make my own mark, Nosebleed. Just you wait. The Tunnel Snakes will rise again!”

She snorts. “There are lots of raider gangs out here, Butch. Believe me, you don’t want to get mixed up with them.”

“What the fuck’s a raider?”

Fawkes half-listens as Jinx informs her friend, keeping his eye on the horizon for any threats. The picnic is long forgotten at this point, though he thinks they can salvage the sandwiches and meat pies. Jinx is normally more perceptive than he—and her indispensable Pip-Boy is a useful tool—but her enthusiasm in educating her young friend is a potent distraction.

“So you can crash with us for a while, and I can talk Simms into getting you some training—“

“Babe, I came out with _you_. Who the fuck is Simms and why is he gonna be the one showing me around?”

“Because Fawkes and I are going hunting,” she says, grinning to plaster over the seriousness of her intent. To Fawkes, she could not be more obvious if she simply wrote ‘guilty conscience’ across her forehead.

For Butch, who has known her even longer if not as recently, it must be the same. He drapes his arm over her shoulders, squeezing and eyes narrowed as he growls, “No shit. I’m going with you.”

“It’s a test run. We’re taking down a raider nest in Evergreen Mills—we’re shutting them down for good, Butchie, and we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“So wait for me.” His hand squeezes and he spins her to face him, eyes dark and lost, haunted, and Fawkes remembers he’s already lost friends down in the Vault. “ _Wait_ for me, babe.”

“I already waited long enough. I should’ve gotten rid of them ages ago, and—Butch, this is something I have to—I _want_ to do.” She slides her arms up, thumbs hooking under his armpits and pushing back so he stumbles and she stands free of his shadow. “I want to do this. I _need_ to do this, or I’m not—every day I spend waffling over it, trying to convince myself I’m not some little girl wearing oversized armor, someone gets hurt. Sheriff Simms and Jericho can get you up to speed, and then I’ll come back and fill in the gaps.”

“You _better_ fucking come back, Nosebleed.”

“I came back from the dead once already, Butch. What are a couple of bullets?”

And at Butch’s disbelieving snort she starts talking about the purifier and Fawkes watches Butch, notes the way he never strays more than a few steps from Jinx and how he still squints disbelievingly at the sun. The way he walks with shoulders back and his chin jutted and how his fingers drum a restless tattoo against his pocket, all the little bits and pieces he’s used to build himself, but without enough experience to fill the gaps. Not like Jinx, who even with her cracks has somehow fitted them so she shines like a kaleidoscope when held to the light.

They are both children of the Vault, uprooted and growing towards an unfamiliar sun.

So Jinx shows Butch around Megaton, and Butch shakes hands with the sheriff, blushes bone-deep at Nova’s drawled invitation, and finally makes his way back to their little Megaton home to (finally) consume the picnic packed that morning. Butch’s gaze immediately lights on the enormous bed in the center of the room and he begins stammering questions before Jinx rolls her eyes and says,

“Butch, I _told_ you Fawkes and I are together. You really think he fits a standard bed?”

“Well… fuck. As long as you got room for me somewhere else, what the hell. Just keep it down tonight.”

Even knowing they are marching on to take down a fortress, Jinx finds the energy to call “oooooh, _yes!”_ and make other horribly suggestive noises. Fawkes rolls onto his side and sprawls with an arm over his ear to block out Butch’s wailed “ _shaddup_ , Nosebleed!”

 

* * *

 

Morning dawns and Jinx leaves Butch with Dogmeat and a house key, before setting out with a peculiar spring in her step and a sniper rifle in addition to the familiar heft of her plasma rifle. He half-expects her to march across the Wasteland like that, powered by her tireless optimism and good intentions, but she knocks at Jericho’s door first.

Well, that would explain the bottle of whiskey she carries.

He does not answer, so she knocks again. And again. Until a stream of profanity rips through the air and Jericho stomps to the door, cracking it open with a suspicious glare.

“What the fuck you want, little girl?” Despite the sleep muddling his voice, his eyes are sharp and alert.

“What do you know about Evergreen Mills?” she asks sweetly, like honey in strong tea and if it weren’t for the fact she’s armed to the teeth (frankly, Fawkes is relieved that she _didn’t_ file her canines) and wearing at least fifty pounds of arms and armor, it could be mistaken for a casual social call.

“Shit, kid, it’s been years—“

“C’mon, neighbor. No friends out there? Ears to the ground or rumors? You aren’t half as smart as I figured you for.”

Jericho barks laughter, sharp and nasty. “You don’t become an _ex_ -raider unless you make a clean break, kid. I ain’t got nothing for you.”

“Double negatives aside, you’re full of shit.” Her smile broadens, sizzling bright. She’s less a woman and more a dynamo, and if her full intensity had been on _him,_ he would buckle before her like grass before the gale.

But Jericho is not him. Jericho’s lips twist into a sneer. “All done, kid.” He starts closing the door, but Jinx’s foot wedges in to block it. His attempt to slam the door on her boot comes to naught as metal clangs on metal.

“Jericho. You’ve got a good life here. I’m not gonna take that away from you,” she murmurs, eyes pale and prophetic. Even Jericho seems caught in their spell, staring at her slack-jawed. “But I’m trying to make a better tomorrow, too. If the caravans don’t have to worry about those raiders surging out and attacking their routes, they can _go_ places. Bring more trade to _everyone_. Cave fungus from Little Lamplight, produce from Rivet City, guns and ammo and booze and all the little things that make life for _everyone_ better.” She bares her teeth, vicious and playful. “Especially an old has-been who doesn’t have the guts to strike it out anymore.”

Jericho snorts, kicking the door open and leaning against the doorjamb. He sleeps shirtless, apparently. His skin ripples with old scars and gouges, plus the faint tracks of old injection marks stippled across his flesh. For all the man’s talk of being ‘old’ and the definite bulge about his belly, Jericho’s still got hard muscle beneath the fat. He’s all venom and shell casing.

“Kid, I ain’t falling for that reverse psychology crap.”

“No. Just stating facts.” She tightens her lips, holding out her hand. He eyes it like a frag mine. “I’m giving you an option. Give me whatever info you have on the Mills, and I’ll take you with me when we stomp through Paradise Falls.”

His eyes bulge, mouth flapping open as he sputters. “Kid, the Mills is _one_ thing, but Paradise Falls ain’t—“

“We’re doing it.”

“Kid, you’ve done enough good shit. No one’s questioning your rep. You don’t have to make your daddy proud anymore.” For Jericho, this is… well, gentle. Even with his arms crossed and his lips curled back over tobacco-stained teeth.

“It’s not for my father. It’s for _me_.” She smiles, hand still extended. “C’mon. Two bottles of whiskey. One now, one later. Just like old times.”

“Ain’t you worried I’d just shoot you in the back?”

Jinx laughs, bright as a sunburst and head thrown back with the force of it. “Jericho, you’re not that _dumb_.” Her eyes gleam with secrets and Jericho stands hypnotized. “And I think you’ve got more hero in you than you give yourself credit for. Because even if we go out in a blaze of glory, an old man like you’d rather die with your boots on, right?”

He spits, scuffing his bare foot on the floor. “ _Shit_ , little girl. Who even says that kind of crap anymore?” But he slaps his hand in hers, wincing as her grip tightens in a hearty shake. “I’ll give you the info. And haul my ass out for one last suicide run.” Mustering the familiar, sharp-tongued acid, he adds, “Even your pet monster can’t keep you safe from Eulogy Jones and his crew. And I ain’t learning the name of any new neighbor.”

“As always, your consideration touches me.”

“Shut up.”

Jinx gives him the bottle of whiskey and he unceremoniously lets them in for possibly the oddest ‘war council’ Fawkes can imagine. Still wearing only his faded gray boxers, Jericho pulls out a chair from a battered card table and sits down, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle. Jinx sits across from him, ankles neatly crossed. Fawkes elects to stay standing.

Despite all his claims to be out of the loop, Jericho proves a useful font of information. He discusses numbers, weapons (“mostly shitty, but just gotta be lucky once with a shitty rocket launcher and it’s goodbye, kid”), layout (“it’s a rat’s nest. Armor up and keep an eye for cover”) and some of the more _colorful_ characters they might encounter.

“Madame’d shit herself to get her hands on you,” Jericho snorts into his coffee. (Jinx finally took it upon herself to make a pot as part of her effort to get Jericho talking. The man promptly poured a dollop of whiskey into his mug.)

“Erm—why?” Jinx blinks, nonplussed.

“Not you. Him.” Jericho jabs his thumb at Fawkes, and now it’s the mutant’s turn to blink and ask “why,” echoing Jinx’s question.

“Rumor’s that Madame caught a behemoth. Tried training it to be useful, but not a lotta luck.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cuz no one’s heard of a behemoth raiding caravans, right?” Jericho gives a phlegmy cough, hacking mucus into an ashtray. “Don’t matter if it’s trained or not, though. That fucker gets free, it’s smashing you just the same.”

“If it’s still there, it’s a prisoner too.” Her mouth sets in a thin line. “Human or mutant, they’re all getting free.”

“Don’t expect it to be grateful. But Madame’d shit herself for a smart one, so watch out if she tries shooting you up with whatever cocktail keeps that thing dozy.”

“Duly noted.” Fawkes doubts it will be a major concern, but at least Jericho is trying to help.

“And if you see Smiling Jack—and he don’t shoot you or you shoot him—give him a holler. He ain’t bad.”

“Just terrible?”

Jericho flicks her nose for that insolence. “He ain’t been up for raiding shit in ages, but the Mills ain’t a bad place for a merchant. Long as you know how to deal with the locals, at least. And he does.”

“Not planning to shoot anyone who doesn’t shoot first.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long you stick to that.” Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he then asks “You still serious about Paradise Falls?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

He laughs, though it’s cracked and brittle around the edges. “Shit. You survive that, you’ll drink off that story for the rest of your life.”

“ _We_ will.”

“Don’t get killed at the Mills.”

 

* * *

 

Staring down the cliff at the raiders scattered throughout the compound, ant-like and aimless, Fawkes thinks back to Jericho’s parting words.

“Hey. Not so tough. Not after Enclave,” Jinx chuckles, setting up her rifle and lying on her belly. She hums softly while adjusting her scope, and murmurs, “Be my eyes? I think I can pick off a bunch of sentries. Did something like this with Charon before, and they aren’t… aren’t real organized. Could weed them out, then sweep in.”

“Any attempts at stealth?”

She bites her lip, giving him a sidelong peek through her lashes. “Well… got some Stealth Boys. We could try once we get inside the building proper, but dunno how useful it will be for outside. And they  don’t make you any quieter. I could probably sneak up and pick them out, one by one in the dark and shadows, but can’t _rely_ on it if things get hairy.”

And Fawkes’ knows his lumbering tread would only betray their position.

But that will come later. He spots for her, each crack of her rifle bringing down another raider traveling the walkways over the enclosure. He sees a pen of captives in tattered rags, but remembering Jericho’s warning about the behemoth he keeps scanning until— _oh,_ and there he is, trapped inside a metal-walled prison with electricity arcing through it. He sits slumped in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, and Fawkes wonders if perhaps he might finally have another of his kind…

Though Jinx is as much mutant as he. He corrals his thoughts to the task at hand, watching the raiders mill below like bewildered ants. A few wave pistols in their direction, but the puny weapons cannot cover the distance.

Jinx grunts, sits up and rolls her shoulders. “I think the chems screw with their heads. They know we’re here, but if we circle around and wait a bit, they will return to normal. Happened last time at least.” Fawkes takes her sniper rifle, offers his hand and she grasps his thumb as she pulls herself upright and they skirt the perimeter of the Mills. Out of sight of the raiders, her eyes scanning both the horizon and the Pip-Boy strapped to her wrist, she murmurs, “Hope Butch is getting on all right with Simms.”

“I am sure they are fine.” Not knowing what else to say, he rests his hand on her shoulder.

She immediately responds by rubbing against him like a cat, eyes closed and lips parting with a happy sigh. “Okay. A couple more rounds to thin them out, then we can sneak on in—I’ll go first. There’s probably some mines scattered around choke points entering the Mills, so I can disable them. We won’t be able to maintain much surprise past that, so might as well just sweep in and hit them hard before entering the compound proper.”

“And the prisoners?”

“As soon as we clear out the outskirts. I mean—anyone who wants an escort, we can probably take them back to Megaton, but they’re free to loot the raiders themselves and strike out if they’d prefer.” He catches her gaze flick to the behemoth. “And we’ll free him too. Just… want to try talking to him first, just in case.”

“And if he is not like me?”

She bites her lip. “It’s cruel to leave him there, but if he’s going to go out and attack the others…”

“My feelings are not hurt if you wish to save him for last.”

Relief breaks across her face. “Thank you.”

They suit actions to words, circling the broad basin of the Mills and alternating bursts of rifle fire with quiet retreats, never staying still long enough for the raiders to pinpoint their location. Her aim is good, the sentries falling one by one with a thin red spray. One’s head explodes in a geyser of blood and gore.

“Dammit! Too high!”

“She is still down.”

“Yeah, but—yeah, still works. I just go for center of mass, you know? Headshots look impressive and all but just… urgh.” She exhales through her nostrils, taking aim.

Finally, with the ramparts empty and the milling crowd thinned, they ease their way downhill to the one point of entry to the Mills. The area’s lined with railings and long-dead boxcars, mutilated torsos and limbs strung overhead. Uneasily, Fawkes wonders if all of the victims had been dead before the raiders hoisted them on display.

Jinx switches to her plasma rifle. Pointing her finger downward, she indicates for Fawkes to stay still as she ventures forward. She straps a Stealth Boy to her wrist and activates it, and Fawkes watches her shimmering blur—like hot air on asphalt—disappear around a corner.

He keeps his Gatling laser at the ready, forcing his breathing slow and even while straining for what he can hear. Anticipating—dreading—the distinctive _thoom_ of her plasma rifle if she has to fight her way out. Hoping not to hear the explosion if she triggers a frag mine.

He starts counting breaths in an effort to remain calm. In some ways, this is easier than the forced stillness of the sickroom; he can move, he knows he is allowed to _act_ should things go foul, but there is so much more real risk should Jinx falter.

After eighty-seven (nine?) breaths he spots the blurred air. Uncertain whether it’s truly her or his own over-eager imagination, he still hisses through his teeth when she blinks back into view. She grins, red curl of hair plastered to her scalp and lips chapped, curved in a scimitar-smile and it _hits_ him harder than he would have thought, thinking that for all his concern—she’s fought her own battles, from long before they met. Long before she even escaped her vault and into this sun-drenched world of grit and dust. She’s the hero of her own tale.

He is honored to accompany her.

But _later_ , later, when the scars fade and the blood washes and the sharp adrenaline fades— _that’s_ when it will become a story. One she may tell with pride around another campfire. _Now_ is another fight, another battle to the end. She stays low, hidden, jumping shadow to shadow and dancing in and out of sight with her Stealth Boy. Fawkes moves forward, takes cover where he can—thin metal walls of ramshackle dwellings, behind rocky outcroppings and circling ramps and going forward, ever forward—while Jinx circles, flanking. Half the raiders she drops don’t even realize she’s there and Fawkes decides he’ll thank Moira a thousand times over for her armor as a bullet skims his metal shoulder plate and he jerks to the side, aim off but his laser still cuts across the raider’s arm and he (she?) drops the weapon moments before Jinx blasts green plasma at them.

_This is much easier than the assault on the purifier._

No sooner does the thought cross his mind than the world explodes to his left, a rush of heat as gravel and shrapnel spray the air. Wheeling frantically, he now spots the raider—lean woman, some sort of helmet with antenna—with a missile launcher and Jericho’s warning echoes through his memory. The raider’s shouting obscenities but Fawkes doesn’t pay any mind, running as he fires and conscious of what a _big_ target he makes…

A plasma sear, and she abruptly turns to a neon puddle.

Jinx blinks back into existence, shaking her head. “Last one out here. Let’s go free the prisoners.”

They walk past the caged behemoth, Fawkes’ gaze drawn to the bones littering his cell. Brahmin, though with at least one distinctly gnawed-looking human femur. The mutant watches them dully, sitting with his back to one of the metal walls and growling in his throat. Fawkes’ hopes sink.

“Hello? Can you understand me?” he tries, struggling to maintain his optimism.

The behemoth growls, and one of the men in the pens beyond calls, “No use. Look, it’s dozy and drugged right now, but leave it alone. Who are you?”

“Jinx. Wanderer. This is Fawkes.” Jinx fiddles with a bobby pin and her trusty screwdriver, popping the lock to the slave pen and sliding the pin into her hair. “We’re planning on cleaning out the Mills, but you’re free to go if you want…”

Fawkes stays by the poor beast’s cage, only half-aware of Jinx’s discussion with the former captives. Haltingly, he tries variations on ‘hello,’ eyes sharp for any glimmers of understanding. Even the other super mutants had at least _understood_ English, and would talk amongst themselves, but either this one lost even more intelligence than most or its captivity has rendered it nonverbal.

“So you’re the smart one,” says an unfamiliar voice.

Blinking, Fawkes turns his head to see a round-faced woman watching him. She must have been a recent capture, since she seems relatively clean and uninjured.

“I heard Three Dog’s broadcasts. The mutant and the hero—not hard to recognize you, even from hearsay.” One of her companions passes her a bloody pistol, which she wipes on her pants. “Thanks for the rescue, but—just so you know, this one’s not like you. Some of the raiders said he knew some words before Madame got a hold of him, but he’s lost them. If you’re planning on setting him free, at least wait until we’re all out of range.”

Jinx wafts over by his elbow. “Do you know how often they drugged him up? Maybe if we can wait for the meds to fade…”

“Once a day, in the morning, more if he was having episodes—but then you’re still dealing with a very large, angry super mutant.” The woman sighs, running ragged nails through her hair. “Look, I’m—don’t get the wrong idea, I’m still grateful— _we’re_ still grateful—but we’ll be gathering up supplies, then heading out. Don’t want to be anywhere near when you let that thing loose.”

“Fine. Take what you need, whatever time—and if you’d rather rest a bit, feel free. Don’t know how long it’ll take us to go through the Mills, but the offer’s still open if you want an escort to Megaton.”

“We should be fine from here. Thank you.” The woman breaks away to search for more gear.

Jinx rises onto the balls of her feet, shuffling through her pack until she finds a little package of snack cakes. The plastic crinkles beneath her fingers as she rips it open, spilling powdered sugar. Pulling out the cake, she calls, “Hey, big guy. Hungry? Thirsty?”

The behemoth stares, expression unchanging.

“Here—“ and she fumbles, unable to wedge the package through the links in the gate. She puts the cake back in the wrapper, handing it to Fawkes and briskly shaking her hands of excess sugar. “Fawkes, can you toss it over to him? I don’t think I can make it…”

He nods, lobbing it over the fence, wincing as a cake tumbles out, but the package lands directly in front of the behemoth.

The behemoth still does not move.

“Ugh. Maybe a bottle of water too, just in case…”

Fawkes obeys, hoping these efforts won’t be in vain, that the other mutant will recognize the attempt once the drugs wear off.

“Look, we’ll be back and we’ll let you go, okay? After that stuff gets pumped out of your system.”

One of the freed captives shakes his head at this little display, but Jinx ignores him. Fawkes trails behind her as they pass into a small courtyard, around the blackened husk of a burnt-out car, then up the metal walkway into the Mills proper.

Inside is dark, dingy—a foul smell of sharp-edged rust and rot, bloody hooks dangling from the ceiling and filth strewn everywhere. Jinx stays still, waiting for her eyes to adjust rather than turn on her Pip-Boy. Fawkes cannot help comparing this dirty compound to the harsh sterility of Vault 101, how here the nightmares lurk closer to the surface but Jinx remains so _alive_ , confident in her own skin rather than the half-shackled little girl she was afraid of becoming back in the vault.

A raider with spiked hair walks down the stairs on the other side of the room, and Fawkes blasts him to ash. Jericho’s directions serve them well as they scour the perimeter, Jinx padding ahead on soft feet as they ambush the raiders in the small office and dining areas. They go one by one, slow and patient and somehow managing to retain the element of surprise despite Fawkes’ lack of stealth and the distinctive sound of their weapons. They have a hairy moment when Jinx gets cornered by a woman with a flamethrower, but Fawkes grabs a fire extinguisher from the wall and bashes her over the head before she can do more than singe Jinx’s armor.

“ _Ow_! Crispy!” But she claims to be fine to move on, and he wonders just how quickly her accelerated healing will come into play.

She swings open the door to the bazaar, Fawkes trailing behind as they descend the ramp to the underground facility. Despite the metal pillars supporting the ceiling, he thinks the building must have been set over natural caves, expanded for later use—perhaps the raiders? Or had they simply moved in after the prior occupants had been unable to defend their base? Not important to the mission at hand, lingering in the shadows as Jinx eyes the wooden ramps and walkways lined with sandbags. Lightbulbs strung overhead provide some illumination, and at least here the warren-like layout provides cover for _them_ as well as the raiders. A complete stealth approach seems improbable, so Fawkes tightens his grip on his Gatling laser and waits for Jinx’s hand signal before rushing forward. Her form flickers, Stealth Boy finally out of batteries but that doesn’t stop her from strafing the raiders gathered in the kitchen.

 Fawkes storms the central walkway, firing at various enemies armed with shotguns, rifles, but thankfully no more missiles or flamethrowers. One raider charges with a knife, slips under his guard and rakes his ribs with it, but his leather armor deflects most of the blow. He wheels, struggling to focus the laser on this raider in too-close proximity and hears rather than sees the bolt of plasma fly by, but Jinx holds back—probably afraid of hitting him. So he smashes the blocky Gatling laser into the raider, gritting his teeth at the abuse of that poor weapon. But that knocks the raider aside, sprawled over one of the sandbag walls and easy pickings as Jinx unceremoniously blasts him.

Losing count of how many down now—it had been a simple matter of point and shoot, knowing that anyone who hollered and moved was an enemy—nausea hits in the pit of his stomach as he realizes the sharp edge of _excitement_ quickening his blood. He tells himself this is a good thing, something to maintain his fighting spirit as they cleanse this raider nest, but if he loses himself in battle he would be little more than that poor behemoth outside…

But this introspection must wait for _after_ the battle.

They clear the central pit, and then follow the lights to a red-lit tunnel. The lurid source of illumination comes from a mannequin with—and Fawkes tilts his head at this—red lightbulbs fastened over the breasts. His ears singe as the meaning sinks in, but Jinx does not give it more than a cursory glance as she leads towards the brothel.

The madame, a woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a nasty snarl, levels a hunting rifle at them as they ascend, but Jinx’s armor takes the bullet and Fawkes’ aim is true. Her prostitutes show no gratitude for ‘rescue,’ likely raiders themselves—and Fawkes wonders at the dynamics of this community, if perhaps the raiders had been dissuaded from their paths if this place could rival Megaton—and Fawkes and Jinx are forced to kill them as well.

Rather than move on, Jinx starts rummaging through the madame’s desk and cash register.

“C’mon, c’mon… Fawkes, keep an eye out for any notes. Wanna check her recipe, what she’s been cooking up for the big guy outside.”

Fawkes opens a drawer, sifting through papers and dog-eared notebooks and cigarette butts, gingerly flipping through the notes. Records, clients’ tabs… he finds a scrawled pad with dates and figures, but looks up when he hears a clinking sound.

“Vials of Med-X, syringes… other chems too, but bet that’s what she’s using. Big guy’s probably doped up to his gills. Barring an opioid antagonist, I don’t think we can do much until it clears,” she mutters.

Tilting his head, Fawkes blinks at his companion in surprise. “You have treated overdose before?”

“No—just learned a little. My dad was the vault doctor, and I guess—well, he thought me following in his footsteps would be safest. Pity I decided I like working with my hands better.” Her voice is cool and flat.

Fawkes decides not to press any further, instead following Jinx as she paces down the brothel passage, moving along the wall until they reach another doorway, ringed with lights. The sandy tunnel floor feels unpleasantly gritty beneath Fawkes’ feet, and the rough-hewn walls curve, broadening into a larger room surrounded by shelves lined with assorted odds and ends. A man with an impressive handlebar moustache stands behind the counter, hands up and face relaxed, smile placating.

“Hey, I got no trouble with you. You got caps, that’s all I need. Smiling Jack’s the name.”

Jinx lowers her rifle fractionally. “A trader?”

“Yep. Business is business, least I can figure it. I’ve got no quarrel with you.” He tilts his head, implying a bow towards Fawkes. “And I’m not stupid enough to think I have a chance of taking you on even if I tried.”

“You’re Jericho’s friend?”

His eyebrows shoot up, and Fawkes is half-surprised his moustache does not follow. “Acquaintance, at least. I was unaware the old dog was friends with the Wanderer.”

“Friendly hostility. We’re neighbors.”

“Then if you know Jericho—you know there’s not a lot out there for old raiders. Jericho’s got himself a comfy niche, and this is my place.”

“Even if I just got rid of most of your clientele?”

His smile broadens, revealing teeth filed sharp. The warmth in his voice overcomes that unpleasant shock. “The Mills is a good place. Easy to defend and hunker down if you know what you’re doing. Other people will come. I can deal with raiders, I can deal with Talon, I can deal with settlers or Brotherhood. Whatever I need to get by.”

“No issue with loyalty?”

“My loyalty’s to my skin.” He lowers his hands slow and easy, watching Jinx’s face as her fingers twitch by the trigger but she does not advance. “Way I see it, ticking off the Wasteland Messiah means my lovely hide’s going to get nailed to the wall. So no, no issue with loyalty.”

Jinx lowers her rifle, flicking her gaze to her Pip-Boy. She relaxes once realizing no red dashes show on the scan. “Alright. Then you don’t mind giving information?”

“Depends on what you need.”

Fawkes cannot help thinking of Jericho’s interview as Jinx starts asking about numbers, forays, or any expected raider gangs to return. Smiling Jack states there is a scouting party still at large, but they aren’t expected back for a week.

“More than enough time for you to set up a welcome or clear yourself out, Wanderer.” Jack smiles again, broad and disconcerting. “But the Mills is still known as a raider hub, and even if all the gangs don’t get along with one another, there might be some stopping by. Can’t predict those, so please don’t take it as a double-cross if a few somebodies stop on in before the week’s up.”

Jinx runs her tongue over dry lips, shoulders twitching—and Fawkes reads the question in her eyes before she voices it.

“What do you know about the big guy outside?”

Smiling Jack still smiles, though taut and forced, an uneasy chuckle in his throat as he glances back to Fawkes. “Well… I wouldn’t push your luck. He might act quiet and docile when the meds are still working, but he’ll still rip into a brahmin or person who steps in. And when those wear off, he’s a nightmare.”

Jinx smiles, sunshine tucked in her soul, and Fawkes hopes her optimism won’t be betrayed. She’s faced nightmares and battled them back into the dark.

“Well, _I’ll_ be in here if you’re trying to set him free.”

“Your prerogative. Thank you.”

Fawkes nods his gratitude, still uncertain of his voice. Jinx’s eyes light up and she points to a bobblehead sitting on a back shelf, and Jack plucks it and presses it to her hands before she can even ask.

“With my compliments.”

Then out again, Jinx sweeping into the dining areas and gathering armfuls of food afternoon before exiting with her treasures. The sun is stretched overhead and casting shadows over the camp and the settlers are gone. The lockers left open, items still strewn on the ground, show they spent more time gathering supplies.

“Hey, big guy. Do you like Cram?”

The behemoth blinks at her, still leaning his back to the wall.

She wriggles the can invitingly, then sets it aside. “How about Dandy Apples? Or… did you like the snack cakes? We’ve got more.”

The only evidence of the cakes Fawkes tossed in earlier is a white smear of powder on the ground. Even the wrapper is gone. The bottle of water sits empty though.

“Will you be okay if I open this gate?”

Still no response.

Jinx swallows, toeing the dirt and giving Fawkes a beseeching look. “Maybe if you talk to him?”

It feels strange talking _for_ Jinx—but he has to try.

She would have freed Fawkes even if he didn’t give her the GECK.

She would still try freeing the behemoth if Fawkes weren’t present.

“Please, friend. We would like to help. Would you like food?” Fawkes may as well be addressing a stone for all the reaction he gets. Swallowing, he checks the lock on the gate. They hadn’t looked for any keys, but Jinx pulls out a bobby-pin and one of her screwdrivers. “Perhaps if you unlock it, I could go in and speak…?”

“You don’t have to go in alone.”

Kneeling in the dry grit, he still towers above the small woman. “I do not have to, but it may be for the best. I will not stand docile outside a cage while you risk your life again.”

Jinx frowns, biting her lip—then hops, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him in for a kiss. Short and fierce, it leaves his mouth tingling when she draws back. He can’t resist a worried glance to the behemoth, conscious of their audience, but he’s rolling the water bottle along the ground with one massive finger.

“Be safe,” she whispers before turning her attention to the lock. Her clever hands make short work of the lock and Fawkes opens the gate just enough to permit himself to slide in. His Gatling laser weighs heavy on his back but he sets the weapon aside as he pulls out a tin of Cram.

Standing at a distance, he hadn’t realized how large the behemoth truly was. He presses his lips thin, thinking this must be how most wastelanders view him. He never thought he could feel physically afraid of another, but reminds himself that _Jinx_ overcame it enough to speak with him, to talk and offer him rescue. More than overcame it, enough to…

He blushes, realizing how far astray his thoughts have gone.

Despite his own lack of appetite, he peels back the lid and removes one of the processed meat slabs, making a show of biting into it. The salt lingers on his lips as he swallows. Then he offers the can to the behemoth.

He eyes Fawkes warily, then takes the can, pouring the entirety of its contents into his maw.

Fawkes lets out a low sigh of relief.

The rest of the impromptu meal goes with that same cautious courtesy, Fawkes careful to open and visibly sample everything before passing it to the behemoth. Cram, more water, a box of Dandy Apples, then a Nuka-Cola—for a moment Fawkes worries they might make the behemoth ill if he’s been malnourished, but the other meta human eats slowly and deliberately.

After another packet of snack cakes, Fawkes ventures, “Do you understand me?”

The behemoth gives a careful glance towards Jinx. The tiny human leans her weight on one side, lacing her fingers through the enclosure’s gate.

Unsure of how to read that, Fawkes falters. “She is—she is a friend.” ‘Friend’ is such a weak word for all that she is, but to reveal more would be irrelevant and mortifying. “She would not hurt you. Either of us.” Wetting his lips, he tries circling back to the topic at hand. “I travel with her because I choose to. If you understand my words, please nod.”

Fawkes holds his breath, not daring to exhale until the behemoth gives a single, slow dip of his head.

“Can you speak?”

The other mutant growls, a deep gurgle that makes Fawkes instinctively wince before realizing that was an attempt at speech.

“Very well. If you wish, we can escort you to….” His voice trails, realizing he knows no settlements where a sole behemoth would be welcome. Underworld, perhaps? He knows his own experience in Megaton has been as pleasant as it has been solely because of Jinx’s influence. “Wherever you wish,” he finishes, a wan smile in his attempt to mask his abrupt unease.

The behemoth shakes his head, harsh and emphatic.

“If you would rather venture on your own, that is understandable. We can at least offer provisions.”

He nods.

So Jinx scavenges for a backpack and stuffs it full of water and food. The pack dangles like a handbag from the behemoth’s arm, and despite Jinx’s best efforts at friendliness he shies away from her. She finally stops after a failed attempt to squeeze his hand, when he shakes off the unwanted touch with a growl.

“I’m really sorry,” she whispers, awkward blush creeping over her brown skin.

Finally, watching the groggy behemoth shamble out of the Mills, she mumbles, “Do you think we did the right thing?”

“The best we could.”

“I just hope it was enough.”


	23. Paradise Falls

Singing along with the radio bolsters Jinx’s mood on the way back to Megaton. The little wanderer belts away at the top of her lungs, frightening birds.

“All hail the conquering heroes?” calls Simms, pushing up the brim of his hat.

“Yep! One raider nest, _gone_!” Jinx smacks her hand for emphasis, cackling gleefully.

“Taking Paradise Falls next?”

“That’s the plan, boss-man.”

“So you’ll be taking that army with you?”

She cocks her head in confusion. “What army?”

“Go home and see.”

So Fawkes and Jinx return to a home full of familiar faces. Butch sits at the dining room table with Cross, cracking jokes that leave the paladin smiling tolerantly. Charon sits to the side, cleaning his shotgun and smelling faintly of gunpowder and oil. Jericho leans against the railing, sipping whiskey from the bottle and thumbing through _Cat’s Paw_. Everyone looks up as the door swings open, calling a chorus of greetings and even a faint smile from Charon.

“Whoa. _Whoa_. What are you all doing here?”

“Figured you were too cussed stubborn to die in the Mills,” Jericho leers, adding a wolf-whistle as he flips through the magazine.

“One of the traders stopped by the Citadel and said you had left for Evergreen Mills. I know it is only a matter of time until Paradise Falls is next on the agenda. And,” Cross gives a crescent-moon smile, “I did swear to help you eradicate that nest of slavers.”

“Look, you _gotta_ take me with you.” Butch leans back in his chair, propping his knees under the table and precariously balancing on the back legs. “I did some listening around, and no way in hell I’m letting my best girl and her guy go there alone. And don’t gimme shit about not having the guns or ammo. I checked out your armory.” He smirks, twirling his switchblade so it glitters in the light. “And I’m the King of the Tunnel Snakes, babe.”

Jinx stares at Charon mutely. He blinks slowly, lazy as a cat before answering the question in her eyes.

“Nova sent a letter to Gob. His mother ordered me to escort you.”

“I thought you weren’t an errand boy?”

His lips stretch, the skin about his eyes crinkling. “No. But I guard. And you were one of my better employers.”

She laughs, hard and long and painful as she tosses her helmet onto the bed in the center of the room. “Geez. A lot more people wanted in on this party than I thought.”

“Some things are worth fighting for,” Cross says softly.

“Look, I wasn’t planning on going out until tomorrow—“

“Then we’ve got tonight to party!” Butch whoops.

And despite Jericho’s smirks and Butch’s bravado and Charon standing mutely in the center of it all with an insufferably _smug_ attitude that Fawkes can’t properly describe, there is a bizarre holiday atmosphere. Jinx eventually gives up on pulling the alcohol away from Jericho and Butch, instead warning them that she’ll let Dogmeat piss on them to wake them in the morning if they’re too hung-over to get up. Butch and Jinx swap childhood stories as Jericho attempts to flirt with Cross.

“So… you’re a cyborg? Any neat tricks?”

“I heal faster than average.”

“Nah, I mean, do you do anything in bed? Shoot sparks, any sort of vibrating?”

Cross smiles sweetly over her cup of peppermint tea. “I snore.”

“I meant sex.”

“My vagina was replaced with a pencil sharpener.”

“Wait— _what_?!”

Jinx cackles gleefully at Jericho’s confusion, leaning over to whisper in his ear. His jaw drops as horror dawns across his features.

“Well, _shit!_ ”

Fawkes takes the opportunity to steal back his copy of _Cat’s Paw_. Unfortunately, Butch catches the movement.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Jinx raises an eyebrow as she watches Fawkes’ furious blush and the guilty object… then, smiling apologetically, she says, “Sorry. Just an old mag I left lying around.” The lie goes sweet and easy across her lips, and she tilts her face to give a hidden wink to Fawkes. He breathes a sigh of relief.

“As much fucking _racket_ as you two make, I thought your boy-toy wouldn’t give you _time_ to—“ Jericho begins, but Jinx interrupts with a drawled, “Well, gotta let him rest _sometime_ ,” and a salacious wink that sends Butch mock-vomiting in the corner.

Sleeping arrangements end up with Cross taking the upstairs room that used to be Jinx’s and Jericho taking the other. Charon elects to rest in an overstuffed armchair on the ground floor, resting his shotgun across his knees. Fawkes shares his bed with Jinx and Dogmeat, as per usual, but with Butch on the other side so that Jinx is firmly sandwiched between her ‘two boys.’ Giggled whispers and frantic elbow-shoving between Jinx and Butch eventually earn a rasping, “Quiet. Some of us are trying to sleep,” from Charon before the two settle down.

Fawkes’ heart aches with happiness.

 

. . .

 

Attacking Paradise Falls is _nothing_ like attacking the Mills.

The sentries guarding the entry go down with little fight, thanks to their own party’s overwhelming numbers. Then a hard-packed dirt path to the gates, doors shut but not locked— not that it means much with the two women in power armor or Fawkes, but they burst through with Jinx and Cross taking the lead.

The layout is more open than Fawkes expected, and they have to watch for guards prowling the raised walkways. Butch takes cover behind a table while Jericho cusses, moving to the left as Charon takes the other side. Cross and Jinx, as the most heavily armored members of the group, go down the center, drawing fire and Fawkes has to fight the urge to _protect_ her but she’s doing so well, even the assault rifles’ roar only denting her metal shell—

But then two women in tattered pink dresses come out from one of the buildings, their guns spitting bullets. Fawkes pulls the trigger, but jerks his laser as he realizes both women wear collars. One of the attacking slaves, a dark-skinned woman with close-shaved hair snarls, “This is for Eulogy!” moments before dropping. Scarlet bursts across her chest.

“Wait, wait!” Jinx screams, her plea lost in the din or perhaps to the others’ common sense. She drops her rifle and tackles the other woman instead, both of them tumbling to the ground with Jinx on top and the Asian slave’s shotgun flying out of her hands. She’s hampered from truly incapacitating the woman by the fact that she doesn’t want to _hurt_ her, something which would give the slave an advantage if it weren’t for the fact that Jinx’s Tesla armor is more than sufficient against clawing nails or knees to the groin.

A man in a red suit emerges as well, cocking back his gun and sighting down at the two struggling women. Icy fear trickles down the back of Fawkes’ spine, because even power armor doesn’t mean invulnerability, and Jinx is too lost in her own struggle to even notice…

Red lasers and bullets all rip through the air. It is impossible to tell who actually landed the killing blow, but Eulogy Jones falls without ceremony.

Fawkes would have thought seeing their leader die would demoralize the rest of the slavers—but no such luck, and Jinx is still too busy attempting to subdue the screaming blonde woman to lead the group. So Fawkes checks to make sure Cross is keeping an eye on Jinx (and the cyborg smiles in recognition at his worried look before scanning the area) before watching over Butch. The greasy-haired kid looks a bit pale under his helmet, sweat gleaming across his skin as he forces a hearty laugh.

“Shit, this ain’t so hard.” But he doesn’t complain when Fawkes accompanies him to clear the bar area, getting one last slaver who had been using it as a hiding hole. Fawkes would have been tempted to spare him if he hadn’t promptly shot Butch. The boy’s scream wakes nightmares in the back of his mind (and the strange thought that while he’s heard Jinx scream and cry and rage, he’s never heard her in _pain_ but perhaps all people sound so high-pitched) that Fawkes lays to rest by permanently silencing the slaver.

Jericho and Charon have done well on their separate forays too, judging from Charon’s return and Jericho’s jaunty grin.

Jinx, meanwhile, finally figured out how to still the blonde woman by the simple expediency of sitting on her.

“Don’t look too grateful to be rescued, does she?” Jericho idly comments, scratching his beard. Blood smears his forehead but he doesn’t seem to notice, instead electing to light a smoke.

“You _bitch_!”

“Hey, something wrong with her?” Butch asks, breathing heavily as he clutches his injured shoulder.

“I hope the other slaves aren’t like this,” Jinx grunts. “I mean, I set a couple others free before, but none were like this…”

“Indoctrination.” Cross searches Eulogy’s body, pulling a folded set of papers from his pocket and two ornate leashes. She frowns. “This young woman—either Crimson or Clover—“

“I’m _Clover_ , you bitch, you just wait until—“

“—was trained to be absolutely devoted to whoever holds her command.”

“How do I—“

“Take control.” Charon thrusts himself between Cross and Jinx, squatting down so he is level with the young woman. “You are her owner now.”

“I am _nobody’s_ owner,” Jinx spits.

His gravel tones betray no emotion. “You need to establish yourself as her new authority figure. _Then_ you can work on healing her.”

“I am not compromising—“

“I am _advising_ you. Not as an employee.”

Only Clover’s continued cursing breaks the taut silence between them. Finally, Jinx bends her head. “Hey, Clover? Eulogy Jones is dead. Who’s your master now?”

“You killed Jones, bitch?”

Jinx looks up beseechingly, finally going “No…? But, uh,” she pauses, taking the papers that Cross slips into her hand. “I got your paperwork. And, uh, a leash. If you—geez, this feels so wrong. If you need to remember—“

Clover relaxes, hands flat on the ground. Fawkes eyes her uncertainly, half-expecting a trick following this sudden change in attitude. “Are you my mistress then?”

“I… guess?”

“Can I do something for you? Or… to you?” All the venom is gone, replaced by a sultry drawl and an unmistakable invitation.

Jinx immediately rises to her feet, offering a hesitant hand to help the other woman up. Clover accepts, using the hand to pull herself closer and drape against Jinx’s metal-clad arm. She’s actually a rather lovely young woman, with soft features and beautiful lips, but his skin crawls at the strange, clawing adulation.

“ _Fuck_ but Eulogy did a number on her head,” Jericho mutters.

“Uh, just… escort me. I’m checking on the other slaves.” Jinx disentangles herself.

Clover clings to Jinx like an intimate shadow, draping herself over the smaller woman’s shoulder at every opportunity. Fawkes forces himself to look away, tending to Butch’s shoulder and injecting a stimpack for the young man. Butch cusses under his breath, hissing past his teeth before flicking his gaze after the two ladies.

“That bothers you, huh?”

“I beg your pardon?”

An awkward chuckle rolls past Butch’s lips. “That girl all… clingy.”

“It is not Jinx’s fidelity I fear, but Clover’s mental state.” There is such a contrast between the taciturn behemoth and this woman who, even now, is squeezing far too close to the little wanderer. “Jinx will do her best, but I do not believe we possess the resources to undo Clover’s programming.”

“Fuck. Y’know, you asked me, like, a year ago if it’d be _awesome_ to have a hot babe all eager to roll and I’d have said ‘hell yeah,’ no problem. But she just…. Ugh.” Butch shudders, pushing into one of the houses. The opulent bed just beyond the door suggests it belonged to the unlamented Eulogy Jones, and Fawkes follows for the sake of continuing the conversation. Jinx and Cross (with Clover, still refusing to be parted from her new ‘owner’) are at the slave pens, while Jericho and Charon investigate the other buildings. Fawkes suspects Jericho and Charon will both find ample supplies to pay for their time.

“It is dubious consent, at best.”

Butch purses his lips, rolling that thought around. “Yeah. I guess. Oh, _cool_ ,” he crows, catching sight of a glowing blue bottle of soda. “Wonder if this makes your piss glow?” He stashes it in his pack without waiting for a response. “But yeah. I mean, it’s just—it’s fucking _wrong_ , man. Even if she says she wants it. And I never—I mean, fuck. What fucks with someone’s head like that?”

Fawkes crouches, spying a bobblehead figurine. He picks it up delicately, aware Jinx will like it for her collection. “I would not know. I suspect we would need a doctor or therapist, but those are in regrettably short supply.”

They finish sweeping through the house, picking up spare caps and ammo. Emerging outside, Jinx and Cross have already outfitted the remaining slaves and given directions to the nearest friendly settlements.

“But if you change your mind, you can always come along—“

A grey-haired woman interrupts. “Thank you for the kindness, but I would rather not travel with that one.” A flick of her eyes towards Clover makes her meaning clear, though the Asian (former?) slave ignores her in favor of whispering something in Jinx’s ear.

“Ah—understood,” Jinx mumbles before turning to gently say, “Clover, no. Please.”

“You’re the boss,” Clover purrs. The metal plates of Jinx’s armor _must_ be digging into her hip, but she betrays no discomfort. Just want, hot-edged and dark.

Fawkes shivers.


	24. Grayditch

They leave the gutted Falls after shooting stimpaks into Jericho and Butch. Cross demurs, as her own armor protected her during that fight. But Fawkes watches Cross eat lunch, bloatfly sliders and Salisbury steak disappearing down the woman’s throat at an alarming rate. Thinking of Jinx’s increased caloric consumption, and how Cross had similar augmentations… he wonders how many injuries she shrugs off now due to that nebulous ‘healing factor.’ He knows he himself heals at an accelerated rate, but any effects on his metabolism are lost in his sheer _size_ , not just—

“Hey, Fawkes. Eat up or I’m stealing your cookies.” Jinx chomps imaginary treats with gusto, elbowing him in the ribs. She’s removed her helmet and gauntlets in order to eat, but the rest of her armor stays on. This makes the elbow a little more forceful than it would usually be, but Fawkes endures without complaint.

Clover scowls, jutting her lip and leaning across Jinx—her breasts sliding across Jinx’s, motion so casual Fawkes might think it an accident if it weren’t for the way she continuously tries to touch and fondle her new ‘owner’—to swipe the cookies from the wrapper. “Yours.” She seems no less compelled despite her collar being removed.

“No. _His_ , unless he wants to give them to me.” Jinx holds out her hand, palm-up. Clover drops them into the smaller woman’s hand without a word of complaint.

“It is fine,” Fawkes demurs, unwilling to get caught in another of Clover’s strange power-struggles. The slave—and he hates the way the word hangs in his mind, because even if Jinx wants to free her Clover resists the very idea—might adore Jinx, fierce and irrational, but her attitude remains prickly at best.

Clover grins, triumphant. “See? So it’s for you.”

“But it’s not _fair_.”

“Life ain’t fair. Just eat the damn cookies,” Jericho drawls, lighting a cigarette.

Jinx wrinkles her nose, fanning her hand in front of her face. “Can you at least do that downwind?”

“Fine.” Hitching himself up with a long-suffering sigh, the older man adjusts his position. His own meal’s been packed firmly inside his belly.

“Fawkes, man, want one of mine?” Butch offers his own powdered snack cakes, gaze carefully on Fawkes rather than Clover.

“I appreciate the offer, but I am fine.”

“See? He didn’t want ‘em anyway,” Clover coaxes. “C’mon, I’ll feed you.”

Switching tactics, Jinx wriggles herself sideways so her back’s against Fawkes’ arm. “How about you? Do you want a cookie?”

In his peripheral vision, Fawkes sees Clover lick her lips. “Maybe.”

“So maybe you should have them. If you want.”

Clover sits in uneasy parallel to the behemoth, who had been so cautiously charmed with food and snacks. Clover is all easy smiles, cuddling up to Jinx and accepting the cookies with her lips in a round ‘o’ of delight. She doesn’t even seem to mind Jinx touching Fawkes, not when she leans back with her head in Jinx’s lap as Jinx feeds her cookies.

“Last one. Want to twist for it?”

“Twist what?” Clover screws her forehead in puzzlement. “’Cause if it’s screwing, we can—“

“No, no. Twist! Like the… the wishing game?”

Butch butts in, mouth full of powdered sugar. “Each of you grab one half of the cookie, make a wish, ‘n twist. If you get the half with the cream, your wish comes true.”

“Or at least you hope it does,” Jinx amends.

Charon watches the whole exchange with tight lips, milky gaze roaming restlessly from person to person. Fawkes has the eerie feeling he’s considering tactics should Clover turn hostile.

Clover sits up, legs crossed so her knee bumps Jinx’s thigh. Jinx holds up the last cookie and Clover raises her hand, their fingertips brushing. Clover’s light tan looks positively pale next to Jinx’s brown skin, though both of them are vast shades darker than Butch. But actual sunlight should remove some of Butch’s pallor.

They twist; Clover emerges victorious, white cream (or ‘crème’ of dubious origin) on her chocolate biscuit. She frowns, brow knitting.

“Hey, you won! Congrats!” Jinx cheers, popping her cookie in her mouth. Chewing noisily, she ruffles Clover’s hair.

Clover still stares at her cookie piece.

“C’mon, eat it. Won’t come true if you don’t eat it.” Jinx leans forward invitingly, hair falling across her eyes and the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile.

“C’mon, the cream’s the best part,” Butch chimes in, his own dessert now little more than sugar coating his fingers. He sucks those clean, smacking his lips.

Jinx wriggles uncertainly, her foot vibrating like she’s fidgeting inside her armor. “I’ll even feed it to you, if you want.”

Clover nods and Jinx plucks the cookie from her fingers. The Asian woman closes her eyes—something that makes her look oddly vulnerable, trusting—and opens her mouth, tongue soft and extended. With great ceremony, Jinx places it on Clover’s tongue. Clover slowly chews, swallowing before she opens her eyes.

“Hey, what did you wish for?” Jericho asks, blowing smoke.

“You’re not allowed to ask!” scolds Jinx with a swat in his direction.

Clover remains surprisingly silent, but when she realizes Fawkes is watching, she scowls. “Quit staring at me, mutie.”

“Hey, be nice to him. Please,” Jinx hastily adds, still aware of how Clover interprets requests as commands.

“Huh. With the mutie and the greaseball and the girl, you’ve got a full house now.” Jericho’s chuckle trails into a phlegmy cough. “So you’ve got… what, a husband, a wife, a dog, a demented baby?”

“Nah, planning on going to the Lincoln Memorial first. I figure they might be able to help with—well, they can help. They help runaway slaves, so I’m hoping they might…”

“Shit, my road ends here, kid.” Jericho cracks his knuckles with a theatrical sigh, leaning against a sunny rock. “I already did more’n any old raider’s got to do, clearing this place out.”

“Never said you had to. Feel free to take whatever you like.”

Grinning, Jericho says, “Fuck. Made more on this little outing than I figured we would, even with you freeing the merch.” Before Jinx can puff up with indignation, he snorts. “I know, was never in the plans. But I can sell the weapons and shit for some of the _good_ booze. At least get a couple rolls with Nova.”

“Butch, if you go home with Jericho—“

“Hell no!” he squawks. “I came out with _you_. If you’re going to this Linking place, I’m going with you.”

“You sure, Butch?”

“Hell yeah. I’m traveling with the Wasteland’s best gal, aren’t I?”

Butch and Jinx’s squabbling is a comforting background noise as Jinx shows him her Pip-Boy, transferring data and discussing the route. Fawkes pays it little attention; he will follow Jinx regardless of the path, and he trusts her guidance. Clover has given up on glowering at him, instead draping herself across Jinx’s shoulder and eyeing the Pip-Boys with interest.

So Fawkes addresses Charon. “How have you been?”

A tendon twitches on the ghoul’s cheek. “Fine.”

“How is Gob?”

“Good.”

Through a series of monosyllabic responses, with only Charon’s dry snorts and occasional bared teeth to hint at any sort of enjoyment, Fawkes gathers that Gob is adjusting well to being back in Underworld, and Charon enjoys being around other ghouls. Or at least as much as Charon seems to ‘enjoy’ anything.

Eventually, Jinx and Butch sort themselves out to their mutual satisfaction. (Fawkes suspects it’s fight for the sake of fighting, something so Butch does not have to admit how much he needs Jinx.) Jericho will return to Megaton, and Cross offers to accompany them in escorting Clover to the Lincoln Memorial.

“Thanks,” Jinx sighs, voice echoing as she dons her helmet.

“Hey, how come when _I_ say I wanna help, you tell me ‘go home, Butchie!’” he mimes with flapping hands, voice pitched high in falsetto. “But when _she_ says, you’re all—“

“She’s wearing power armor and has been kicking ass longer than either of us combined,” Jinx snorts.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, but if my presence dismays you, perhaps we can discuss it?”

Butch gapes like a trout—or at least the pictures Fawkes has scene—at her, eyes bulging. “Well, _shit_. I mean, you’re, like, what? Ancient? That’s supposed to be a good thing?” he starts, voice quavering. “What if you slow us down? Or…” His voice trails, lips twisting in an uncertain expression. “You actually want to talk?”

“Is an adult discussion of our grievances so strange?” Cross asks, gentle as a lullaby.

“Well… shit. Got no grievances. Just hassling Nosebleed,” he mumbles into his shirt, flicking out his switchblade as if it has done him a personal injury.

Charon catches Fawkes’ eye, lips shaping words without breath.

 _Children_.

Fawkes can’t help laughing.

 

* * *

 

So it is decided. Jinx, Fawkes, Cross, and Butch will escort Clover to the Lincoln Memorial. Charon indicates he will accompany them at least until they reach the Mall, then return to Carol. Afterwards, Cross will go back to the Citadel and the rest of them will return to Megaton.

Clover  gets new shoes—there are boots to spare when they search through the slavers’ belongings, though it still takes a search to find them in Clover’s size—and she expresses her gratitude in such _warm_ tones that Fawkes’ ears singe in second-hand embarrassment. But at least the effort of maintaining the pace means that Jinx gets a little more breathing room, taking her usual springy stride with Clover trailing close behind on her left, shotgun at the ready. Jericho had raised an eyebrow at the wisdom of letting Clover stay equipped, but simply exhaled smoke and rolled his eyes rather than arguing.

(Jericho found two whole cartons of cigarettes, part of the reason he is in such a good mood.)

Jinx and Cross take the lead, Butch trailing behind and occasionally picking through the radio stations on his Pip-Boy.

“Damn, not a lotta music out here,” he grumbles.

“We do the best we can,” Jinx sighs.

Fawkes is grateful for her Pip-Boy and her sense of direction. The featureless grey wastes lack few landmarks, and only the ever-retreating statue of the Big Boy at Paradise Falls tells him they are even heading in a straight line. He supposes he could figure directions by the sun’s position, but the sun _moves_ too and that does not help.

Clover keeps her shotgun loosely held, gnawing the inside of her mouth as she slows her pace to stay even with Fawkes. He carefully keeps his gaze towards the horizon, uncertain of provoking her by watching her too closely.

“So. You and the boss-lady.”

“Do you have a question or concern?” he asks, gentle as he can. Mouth soft, tongue dry, wondering what else to expect.

Butch breaks out in raucous laughter. “Shit, _I_ _’_ _ve_ got concerns.”

“How long you two been together?” Clover asks, kicking a pebble so it bounces off the back of Butch’s boots.

Fawkes wets his lips. It feels like a lifetime of knowing her—and in contrast to the monotony of his days in captivity, yes, it is. Despite the relative brevity.

“I have travelled with her for over a month now.”

“Not traveling. _With_.”

“Long enough,” Jinx teases, dropping back with her voice clashing silver through her helmet’s distortion. “Why do you ask?”

“Just figuring.” Clover averts her eyes, crossing her arms and drumming her fingers over the bend of her elbow.

“Figuring what?”

“Why the fuck you’d pick a mutant.”

“He’s kind. Sweet.” She squeezes Fawkes’ arm, and happiness coils tight inside his ribcage. “A good dancer too. Does it matter?”

“ _Yeah_ , it matters!” Clover turns her face, accusation glinting in her dark eyes. “Crimson’s all splattered red, and you don’t even wanna fuck me! Why did you pick _me_?”

Jinx halts in shock, mute for a change. Ahead, Cross pauses, turning back.

“If time had permitted, we would have helped Crimson as well,” the star paladin says gently, as if she can soothe Clover’s wild edges with a few well-chosen words.

“But why _try_?”

“Because you deserve better than—Because you deserve nice things,” Jinx mumbles, hands twisting guilty lines behind her back. “Clover, if you’d rather we let you—let you go—“

“Nuh- _uh_ ,” Clover snarls, shaking her shotgun. White-knuckled grip on the barrel, on the stock—thankfully, no finger to the trigger. Safe. Or at least as safe as any loaded firearm can be. “I like you, but need to figure your _angle_. How the hell am I supposed to take care of you if you don’t let me?”

Jinx swallows an awkward laugh, helmet tilting to the side. “That’s not your job.”

“Brahmin shit.” Clover takes a step forward, close enough that her skirt swishes against Jinx’s knee.

“I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“Then why did you take me with you?”

Dread weighs heavy in the pit of Fawkes’ stomach. Somehow, he feels ‘pity’ would only fuel resentment. But surprisingly, Charon speaks up.

“Because she needs things without knowing she wants them.” His own shotgun is at the ready, aimed low—but it would take only a moment to raise it. And just as Fawkes knew that pity would anger Clover, he knows that Charon would shoot her like a rabid dog if the situation goes awry.

An awkward laugh ghosts through Jinx’s helmet. “Well, Charon’d know best.”

“So how am I supposed to _help_ you if you don’t—I dunno. Want me to _help_?” Clover hisses.

“Start by watching my back. Keep up, help set camp when we get there. That’s all I need.”

Clover eyes her warily, dark eyes reflecting unknown calculations. Then she nods, blonde hair wisping over one eye. “What about at night?”

“Then we sleep. Or take watches. Or… look, why is this so important to you?”

“Eulogy would pick favorites. Just wanna know my place in this.”

Jinx folds her hands by her side, bouncing forward on the balls of her feet and twitching about the edges. “I don’t sleep with Butch and I like him plenty fine.”

“Thank god for that, Nosebleed,” Butch mutters.

“Means you like your mutant better than the boy,” Clover says, sledge-hammering her way back to her original point. Bites her lip and tightens her grip. “Means—“

“Means sex isn’t _everything_ ,” Jinx snaps, fingers splayed in a flustered, dismissive gesture. “Look, if we’re really going to talk about this, can we at least keep _moving_? And just because I like or love doesn’t mean other relationships are less _valid_ …”

Jinx and Clover carry on ahead, Jinx’s voice going shrill with agitation and Clover’s mouth set into a stubborn line. Watching them is an uncomfortable entertainment, Jinx waving her hands wildly and Clover raising her voice to match. Eventually, Jinx pulls her helmet off, panting as if overheated by her own words echoing through the armor.

“Hey, got a green dot on the Pip-Boy….” Butch calls in warning, and Fawkes shades his eyes to see a brown-haired child approach. Dogmeat barks greeting, tail wagging, and Fawkes takes that as a positive cue.

Clover braces her shotgun to her shoulder.

Jinx immediately protests, “ _No_ , not at a _kid_.”

Charon is less trusting; his own weapon is raised, but Jinx must not notice. The little wanderer instead walks to greet the boy. His clothes are well-mended by Wasteland standards, his hair relatively clean and face fresh. Even his youth cannot hide the hollowness below his eyes though, or the desperation in his voice as he spills a story about “damn ants” and Grayditch.

Jinx talks, soothes—tells him they’ll look for his father, go exterminate the fire ants. Something in her voice—the warmth, the glow of her inner child—sparks something in response from the young man. He shares his name (Bryan Wilks) and calms at her words, hope lighting his eyes.

“How far is this gonna take us?” Butch asks.

“Shouldn’t be too far—“ Jinx begins, before Butch jerks his head in the direction of Clover.

Clover scowls. “Not going to slow you down, boss-lady.”

“That dress won’t hold up too well against fire-breathing ants,” Jinx murmurs.

Snorting, Clover tosses her head to flip her Mohawk out of the way. “And they won’t hold up too well to my shotgun.”

They work it out—Clover’s stubborn jaw and Jinx’s fluttering hands, plus Butch’s occasional scowl. Charon remains disengaged, uninterested. At least he would appear, except Fawkes knows he watches Clover, milky eyes still sharp. Cross’ serene smile is at odds with the younger trio’s strident arguments, but he thinks it broadens in approval as Jinx finally convinces Clover she’d be better guarding Butch. Butch, for all his indignant bluster, accepts it as a polite fiction to keep Clover safe. Clover, despite the way she rolls her eyes, understands the truth underpinning the request.

And Fawkes listens to how Jinx pleads and convinces, rather than commanding. Clover might respond more _quickly_ if she had done so, but it would undermine her efforts in taking her to Hamilton.

Jinx squeezes Fawkes’ hand, a wordless plea for comfort. So he bends his knee, kisses the top of her helmet. Even if Bryan eyes them strangely and Butch retches in the background, it brings him joy.

Grayditch isn’t far, with no raiders or hostile animals along the path. But entering the outskirts of the desolate city, Jinx shivers and taps her Pip-Boy.

“Crawling with hostiles.”

Distant segmented figures, antennae curling—Cross murmurs, “Disabling the antennae causes them to go berserk. May be useful.”

They fan out, Cross and Jinx on point, Charon and Fawkes a little ways back. No greater strategy than keeping the ants away from the most vulnerable members of the group. Bryan has a pistol, but Fawkes doesn’t know how well he can shoot—he lacks the hardness of the children from Little Lamplight.

Lasers and plasma strike the distant ants, a lucky shot melting one to green goo. A soldier ant rounds the corner of one of the houses as they advance, rustling through the dry grass, but Charon’s shotgun punches through the carapace. It advances, _spits fire_ that has Charon running back but then Clover shoots it down with a sneer on her lips.

“ _Told_ you not to worry ‘bout me,” she snarls, savage joy lighting her eyes.

“I worry about everyone,” Jinx mutters, plasma rifle at her shoulder as she takes careful aim.

Clover pauses, chews the inside of her lip.

Fawkes wonders what she’s thinking, but returns focus to the present moment. Butch’s Pip-Boy helps them locate more ants as they conduct a systematic sweep through Grayditch. Street by street and house by house, Jinx muttering as they cut through workers and soldiers.

“Should be finding a _nest_ somewhere. Some kind of queen, eradicate ‘em at the source. But don’t know where…”

Charon primes his shotgun, gaze distant as if referring to some internal map. “Basement. Or more likely—subway station. Dark, protected.”

Bryan pipes up, eyes wide. Staring at Charon like he’s a ghost, not just a ghoul. “Marigold Station. But how did you know?”

“Experience.”

“You ever been here before?” Jinx asks, drumming her fingers on an armored hip.

Charon shakes his head. “Experience.”

Some kind of choked noise from beneath her helmet, Jinx struggling for words and questions but she gives up with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

They rejoin at a derelict diner, near an old shelter that Jinx says will keep Bryan safe if he needs to hide out.

“But Butch, if you can keep an eye on him…”

“And let my best girl go into ant-infested tunnels? No way, babe.”

Jinx crosses her arms, tapping her feet. “Ants are a lot scarier’n radroaches, Butchie. And I’m not trying to protect _you_ , I’m trying to protect _him_.” Her voice softens, dropping to a low murmur. “Plus I’m leaving Dogmeat with you.”

For whatever reason, Butch bristles at her words. “Nosebleed—“

“C’mon, Butch.” She drops her tone, wheedling as she tugs him by the elbow. “Choices are you, Charon, Clover. And I know _I_ _’_ _d_ pick you if I were Bryan.”

“Why the hell not Fawkes or Cross?”

“Because I want my biggest guns on that ant queen.”

Butch shoves his hands in his pockets, glares at her side-long. “Fine. But. _But._ If you help me with Nova.”

“Got the caps, no worries.”

“Not that kind of—aw shit, we can talk this out later. Go kick ant ass.”

Jinx chuckles, clapping him on the back. “Sure. Just keep your Pip-Boy tuned to my frequency. Get a lock in case we need a rescue.”

“Fine.”

They leave Butch ferociously combing his hair, leaning against a Nuka-Cola machine as Bryan waves. Jinx waves back before they turn in search of the metro. They stop through the various houses, disposing of more ants as they find them and Jinx wincing whenever they find human remains—including a man that matches Bryan’s description of his father.

“We’ll have to find the kid some other family,” Jinx murmurs, hand hovering above the unseeing eyes. The face is intact, a relative mercy. She gives Butch a quick message on the radio, plus a hesitant, “Tell him… tell him I’m really sorry.”

“Dammit Nosebleed. Give _me_ the hard job,” Butch groans before ending the transmission.

Charon leads the way at this point, claiming familiarity with general city layouts even if he’s never been to Grayditch specifically.

Clover gnaws her lip, bumps up next to Jinx. “I could have watched the kid too, you know.”

“I know. But I thought you’d prefer to be where the action is.”

“You think I wouldn’t care ‘bout protecting the kid,” Clover says, blunt as a sledgehammer.

“Would you?”

Snorting, Clover butts her cheek against Jinx’s pauldron, heedless of the red mark it leaves on her face. “Nah, not the kid. Would care about it mattering to you.”

“I suppose that’s a start,” Cross murmurs. “The heart is a muscle like any other. It is strengthened through acts of kindness.”

“Gives new meaning to muscle memory, huh?” Jinx chuckles, looking over her shoulder. Fawkes can tell she’s grinning even below the helmet. “No wonder you never forget your first love.”

Charon’s pace quickens, meaning Jinx must lope after him to keep up. Fawkes shakes his head, thinking of the vast years between Charon and Jinx. Between himself and Jinx, if he truly thinks about it—and the experiences that shaped them.

The dank tunnels smell musty and strange in a way he does not recall the other metro tunnels being. He wonders if it reflects local conditions, mineral deposits and condensation, or the ant presence. Possibly both. But as they proceed down the tunnel, past turnstiles and offices, fanning out to eradicate the occasional radroach (and Fawkes wonders what they feed on down here, or what the ants eat) they find a new pattern, a rhythm similar to the assault on Paradise Falls. Armored Jinx and Cross take the lead down the subway tunnels, though Jinx and Charon slip ahead when scouting. Fawkes wonders where Charon got his stealth training—not a typical ‘bodyguard’ skill he would think, but Charon’s obviously been more than a bouncer or bodyguard. Even in heavy armor they move quietly through the shadows, while Cross and Fawkes stand back waiting for reports.

Not that the ants are terribly organized. It’s usually as simple as them coming back, reporting numbers and positions. A simple push, clearing one tunnel at a time until they reach a short set of stairs. Jinx tests the lock before they burst into a brightly-lit room, startling the only other inhabitant.

“Ah! What are you—who are you? What are you doing here? Disrupting my experiments?” exclaims the rumpled-looking man in glasses. Despite his neatly-parted hair, his white coat shows wear and smudges. Perhaps from dissecting the ant pieces sitting on a table.

Jinx pauses, lowering her rifle a fraction of an inch. Neither Charon or Clover lower their weapons—nor does Cross, Fawkes notes uneasily.

“Fire ants overran Grayditch. Thought they killed everyone there. What are _you_ doing here?”

The story comes out, bits and pieces at a time—not that the scientist (Dr Lesko, though Fawkes wonders what institute he came from) is reticent, but that Jinx circles around, worrying at the topic as she digs through for _why_ the ants are here.

When she finds out he’s been conducting experiments in an effort to make them smaller, her temper explodes.

“You— _you_ …! You killed an _entire fucking town_ for the _‘_ _greater fucking good_ _’_?!” she screams, thrusting her finger beneath his chin and backing him against the wall.

He gulps, flounders for a scalpel on a nearby table, but drops it with a clatter as Clover hisses, “Drop it. Boss-lady’s a lot nicer’n I am.”

“Dr Li’s gotta be the _only sane scientist_ I’ve ever met! You—you…!” And she rips into him, yelling about the importance of a controlled environment, about the hubris and blatant disregard for civilian safety of doing this next to an occupied settlement—

When he pleads for leniency, for access to the hatchery so he can correct his mistake, she laughs. A sharp-edged thing flapping off the walls in broken echoes.

“You really think—“

Cross lowers her rifle and places a hand on Jinx’s shoulder. “Please, let us consider.”

Jinx and Lesko continue arguing, him stuttering along and her interrupting with the occasional hissed warning. The task he proposes sounds simple enough, assuming the nest guardians are no more difficult than the ants they already encountered—enter the hatchery and take care of the soldiers, leaving the queen unharmed so Lesko can attempt to reverse the effects.

“So you hope that by piling more experiments on top of the _already_ botched experiments—“

“At least consider it!”

Jinx pauses, thumping her knuckles against her bracers. “Fine. Considering it.”

They leave the laboratory, Jinx taking short, brisk steps. Her boots make a steady, angry rat-a-tat-tat against the concrete station.

Charon exhales sharp through what’s left of his nostrils, and Jinx slows her pace.

“So we doing what the nut-job says?” Clover asks, eyes flicking through the shadows.

“Considering. Don’t want to throw out the _possibility_ of making things better, but don’t think this botch-up means much hope. ‘Specially without any sense of remorse for the _people_ he’s hurt.”

“What’s remorse?”

Fawkes wets his lips, trudging up a definition, but Cross beats him to it.

“Regret, for memories awake.”

“So if he feels _sorry_ , that’s supposed to excuse all the shit he’s done?”

“Redemption is only possible if there is guilt for one’s previous actions. Otherwise, one changes the actions without altering the core of who one _is_.”

“Yeah. I mean, I think you can argue that we _are_ what we do—doesn’t matter if you have the best intentions in the world if you don’t act on them—but doing and thinking are all kinds of separate,” Jinx mumbles, checking her Pip-Boy. No red dashes ahead, so she fiddles to the shared frequency with Butch to give him an update.

The radio crackles back with his response. “Fine. Stay safe, Nosebleed. No ants up here so far.”

“Before we advance—are we going to leave the queen unharmed?” Cross asks, tone so mild Fawkes cannot tell which way she leans.

“…no, don’t think so,” Jinx murmurs, resignation hanging off her words. “Don’t trust Lesko to do the job right, even if the only person left for him to hurt’s himself.”

Clover grins, sharp as broken knives and ignoring Jinx’s justifications. “Good. Don’t like the idea of having to dodge something I’m not allowed to hit back.”

The tunnel narrows to a winding path as they walk towards the hatchery, and they drop to a single-file procession. Jinx takes the lead, then Cross, himself, Charon, and Clover. Clover starts arguing before Jinx points out she’s the most lightly armored member of the group.

“Fine then. Gimme some _good_ gear for next time.”

The dry, musty odor of the ants’ lair grows stronger, and Fawkes hears the soft clattering noises of chitinous legs on hard stone echo through the passage long before they see their first ant. The tunnel widens, a honeycomb of winding passages with immense stalagmites and columns to dodge around, so they fan out and take the first soldier with a minimum of fuss. Efficient, before it can do more than flare its flames. Hopefully before it releases some sort of chemical signal that intruders have reached the nest.

They were successful, judging by how they deal with the next half-dozen ants. A tense moment when one soldier rounds behind them, crawling from a side-passage too small for any of the humanoids to travel through without going to their hands and knees, but Clover’s warning call keeps Charon from getting cooked. The ghoul rounds behind a pillar to avoid a jet of flame. Clover’s shotgun punches through the body’s carapace, then Cross and Charon finish it off.

Finally, they reach the main chamber—and the immense queen brings them each to a halt. Cross and Charon are difficult to read, but Jinx’s shoulders slump in the way Fawkes recognizes for when her jaw’s dropped. Clover is more vocal, muttering “holy _shit_ ” under her breath.

Even though he’s already fought through waves of Enclave soldiers alongside a giant robot and watched his best friend fall before his eyes, there is something _primal_ and terrifying about encountering another giant ant, one over twice the size of the ones already encountered. With _wings_ , taking flight at their intrusion.

Jinx screams “duck!” as it (she?) spits a gob of something noxious and yellow. Charon throws himself aside, leathers scraping against the stone floor and Clover yelps, skirt twirling about her legs as she drops behind a boulder. Jinx does not move so fast as her warning, the yellow liquid spattering her armor and the wall behind her. It bubbles and hisses like something corrosively acidic, but no time to worry for her as Fawkes raises his Gatling laser. Fires off a burst of sizzling red beams, drawing its attention as Cross circles behind the queen. Clover and Charon find their feet, harrying it about the periphery. Despite her lack of armor, Clover likes to move in close. Too close for Fawkes’ comfort, so he shouts at the queen as much as possible to keep it diverted from the woman in pink.

A glimpse of movement at the corner of his eye—Jinx has wiped off the queen’s secretions, now sneaking to the console along one wall. Fingers clicking over the keyboard, deciding whatever secrets the terminal hold might be more important than the fight at hand. Fawkes moves accordingly, noting how Charon places himself to guard Jinx’s back. An easy habit of their previous companionship, one Fawkes is grateful for as two soldier ants scurry from another side passage.

“Fawkes! Keep your attention on the queen, I can handle the smaller ones!” Cross shouts.

Fawkes responds to the instinctive authority in her voice, not bothering with a more verbal acknowledgment. His actions can speak for themselves. He aims for the body and wings, hoping to disable it, limit the queen’s mobility—and when the queen falls, elation sings through his chest. Then he realizes she’s stopped _moving_ , a still carcass he does not think he actually killed.

“Hey, what happened?” Clover asks, raising her shotgun and turning suspiciously.

“Electric pulse. Should’ve gotten the rest of the ants in the station,” Jinx explains, smacking her palms together. “Lesko wasn’t a _complete_ idiot. Had a failsafe—would’ve been smarter if he kept it _outside_ the nest, but eh.”

Cross keeps her laser rifle at the ready, turning to scan the area. “Just because the ants are dead doesn’t mean other threats are.”

Jinx fiddles with her Pip-Boy again, bringing up Butch’s frequency. “Hey, Butchie. Just found a gizmo down here—should have killed the ants, but might still have other things to watch out for. Plus might not have gotten all the ants if they’re out of range of the signal.”

“What did you find?” he crackles back.

Jinx stays in place, talking with Butch as Cross and Charon start stripping the ants for meat. Clover stays near, gaze flicking suspiciously about the tunnels. Despite her wariness, no new ants appear.

Unsure of what else to do, Fawkes helps Cross.

They walk back to Lesko’s lab, where Jinx tersely informs Lesko of her decision. Another argument breaks out—though Lesko quickly subsides as Clover pointedly strokes her shotgun, and he mutters vague agreement that Jinx’s decision was ‘for the best.’ Whether or not he actually believes it, he has the wisdom not to push Clover any further.

Leaving the station is much quicker than entering, none of them bothering with stealth. They make good time towards the surface, Fawkes blinking as they step into the light; not quite the sun-dazzling of his first encounter with the open sky, but still an adjustment. He catches Charon giving him a knowing look, and smiles feebly in return.

When they return the diner, Jinx makes her apologies and offers Bryan a hug. He accepts it gratefully despite the hard metal of her armor. Short as she is, he stands nearly as tall as she—but her comfort is no less welcome for that. Fleetingly, Fawkes wonders how she would look with a child of her own. He tamps that thought down. A distant future, if ever.

Still, she has nurturing in her bones.

She asks him if he has any other family, and Fawkes half-expects her to offer her own home before Bryan mumbles about an aunt in Rivet City.

Jinx lights up. “Vera? I know her! Nice lady, and we’re heading that way anyway. Wanna come with?”

Bryan’s cling answers her question.


	25. Choices

Jinx folds young Bryan under her wing, teases and plays and lets him pick the radio station. Not that there is much choice between Galaxy News Radio and the Enclave station (which Fawkes supposes must be broadcasting from somewhere besides Raven Rock, or is perhaps simply automated. It repeats itself enough at least) but the boy’s eyes widen at the offer anyway. He selects GNR, humming along with Butcher Pete.

Behind them, Clover rolls her eyes.

Bryan slows them down less than Fawkes would have expected, but Jinx still establishes more frequent rest stops. The boy makes no complaints though.

“Have you ever met your aunt?” Jinx asks, drifting beside Bryan.

He shakes his head, then pauses. “Not since I was real little. But blood’s thicker than water, right?” He tilts his head, eyes wide in silent plea.

Clover gives a knife-sharp laugh. “Water’s more precious than blood out here, kid.” No cruelty in her words, but the bitter weight of truth.

“Blood of the covenant,” Charon says. Eyes scanning the horizon, shotgun at his side. No other sign of having paid attention to this conversation, but Fawkes knows the ghoul's regard is like dry grit.

Jinx falters, hand tight on the grip of her plasma rifle.. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Cross’ smooth voice cuts over Clover’s raspberry. “Blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb. Our choices— those who choose us, and we in return— matter more than our origins.”

Butch backhandedly wipes sweat from his brow, squinting at the older woman. “Different than the way I’ve heard it.”

“Yeah, but you expected anything different out of the Vault?” Jinx cocks her head in the way Fawkes recognizes as a grin beneath her helmet. “Mandatory brainwashing aside, Mr Brotch did alright otherwise. Got enough know-how to disarm an atomic bomb on my first day out. So not a complete loss.” She punches him in the arm, barely more than a thump of her armored gauntlet against his bicep. “And thanks for teaching me to hack terminals. Saved my life more than a couple times.”

“Well, you—” Butch gulps, gives a sidelong glance at Clover kicking pebbles, and apparently decides not to continue that line. “Well, I owe you too. Nosebleed.”

“Still owe me a sweetroll. Stale Sugar Bombs aren’t quite the same out here…”

“Fuck it, that was _years_ ago!” he groans, then yelps as Jinx punches him the arm. More force than before, a meaty thump before Butch jumps to the side.

“Language! Kid!” she says, cupping her hands over Bryan’s ears. Not actually touching, her armored gauntlets staying a scant few inches from his head, but effectively making the point.

Bryan giggles, a brittle edge to it. “I’ve heard worse.”

Jinx pulls a face, bulges her tongue out while rolling her eyes. “C’mon, I need _some_ excuse to punch him.”

It devolves to good-natured bickering between Butch and Jinx, then switching to stories and childhood anecdotes when they reach the metro station. Jinx turns off her music, slipping ahead with Charon to scout for hostiles. Butch’s Pip-Boy crackles with an “all clear!” soon after.

Having already gone this way once, Fawkes finds it easier to remain calm in the underground tunnels. Even with the cool weight of the air about them and the earth pressing overhead, the others’ presence reminds him this is a far cry from his cell. Jinx squeezes his hand, butts her head against his arm, then slips away. The ghost of her laugh trails behind as she hums tunelessly.

When they make camp, their new numbers make shifts much easier. Cross heats beans and pork, scraping the sides of the tin, while Charon arranges some of the loose cans lying about the perimeter. Fawkes watches, bemused, until realization dawns.

“A noise trap?” Easy enough to imagine stepping on or kicking them in the dark, easier to imagine how quickly it would alert them.

Charon nods, a subtle dip of his chin, but Fawkes thinks he is pleased.

Butch pulls a bottle of ketchup from his pack during dinner, prompting a startled laugh from Jinx.

“Always prepared? Here I thought you knew the difference between _condiments_ and _condoms—_ ”

He brandishes it in her face, scowling. “Hey, _now_ who’s talking dirty in front of the kid?”

“It’s basic health stuff. Like where babies come from.”

“Maybe if your daddy’s a _doctor_ , but the rest of us—”

“I’m just surprised you packed your own bottle of ketchup, ‘sall.” She sticks her tongue at him, scoops another forkful of beans into her mouth.

Ears turning red, Butch mumbles, “Well, Moira tried feeding me some of her stuff…”

“She’s going into cooking now?”

“Yeah. Radroach.” At Jinx’s hooting, he snaps, “I didn’t know, alright?! It was… ugh! Radroaches are gross and nasty ‘nuff as it is, and _casserole_ don’t make it any better! At least the ketchup drowns it!”

“I am glad to hear my cooking compares favorably to radroach,” Cross murmurs. Butch falls on himself apologizing before spotting the twinkle in her eye and the crease of her lips.

“Surrounded by dames! How the hell is a man s’posed ta _think_?”

“Do you ever?” Jinx asks around a new mouthful. A piece of pork falls on her chin and Clover wipes it away.

Butch and Jinx resolve their argument by the end of dinner, and Jinx passes gum after.

They divide the night into watches, though Bryan and Clover don’t take turns. While Bryan makes a token protest easily soothed with gentle words, Clover is more adamant.

”I don’t see why I gotta be coddled like the _kid_.” The jut of her chin loses some of its ferocity, considering she’s also noisily chewing on bubblegum.

“Not _coddling_ you, but want at least one fighter who’s fully rested when we’re on the move.” An easy fib, her voice so earnest that Fawkes might believe her if it weren’t for the set of Charon’s jaw and the tension lining that flayed face. Her eyes remain painfully bright, perhaps believing her own rationale— but there are lies that one tells one’s self, not just others.

She keeps her promises, but her truths are murkier grounds.

Bryan sleeps between Jinx and Butch, a blanket tucked so he can curl against the sprawl of Jinx’s arm without her armor digging into his flesh. Fawkes takes Jinx’s other side, the outer curve of her body brushing his waist. Not as comforting as their skin to skin contact—and he blushes to think of how he’s been taking that for granted, back in the safety of Megaton— but her presence still soothes him. And Dogmeat sprawls by his feet.

Clover sets up her bedroll perpendicular to Jinx’s, also by her feet. His gaze flicks between the dog and the slave (‘former’ may as well be a formality until she accepts her new reality) and he bites his cheek. Wonders at the parallels, at how much it will take before Clover breaks these chains.

(And Dogmeat follows because he loves her, because she’s fed and cared for him. Fawkes follows because she set him free, because she was the first to recognize the man within the monster. Even Butch follows because she cracked the Vault open, let him in the open air to fly or fall on his own wings— and he chose her.)

He cannot claim to understand Charon’s contract, but perhaps that’s why Charon found it easier to break from her company. He had never been a freed man, only contract-bound.

He does not remember falling asleep, but Charon wakes him for his watch. Fawkes rises as quietly as he can for his shift, thoughts still turning like pages in a book. Worries away at the quiet hours of subterranean darkness, using Jinx’s Pip-boy as a clock. When his time’s over, he shakes her shoulder, helps her up— settles in her spot, her lingering warmth still soothing in her absence.

Much to his surprise, Bryan burrows his head against his forearm as if he’s a pillow. Shifts, sprawling his thin legs across Butch’s belly. An easy position, despite the strange company and stranger environs. Fawkes wonders if Bryan had slept with his parents like this.

Fawkes wonders if _he_ ever had children, before the mutation. Curiosity, not a burning question— legacy is more than genetics. The man he _was_ is not the man he _is_.

A rustle, a footstep, and his eyes snap open. Clover’s up, prowling towards Jinx. Her shoulders rolled back, exaggerated sway to her step and teeth gleaming in the dim light. Soft murmurs, Clover’s voice low. Seductive, a purr— and Jinx laughs. Craning his neck, he sees Clover cupping Jinx’s helmet, pulling it free. Running her fingers through Jinx’s hair, hooking her fingers in the coarse curls. Tugging, dipping low—

A kiss, their heads forming a heart-shaped silhouette in the gloom.

Less than a heartbeat, even less before Jinx nudges her away. Takes Clover’s hands between her own, speaking earnest and gentle, the sweetness trickling like nectar even when he can’t catch the words.

He wonders if he should feel jealous or relieved.

He feels neither, only a vague sympathy as Clover turns back and crawls back into bed. She glances his way, sharp and fierce, and he closes his eyes. Hopes she didn’t see.

…

Clover says nothing of it the next day, and neither does Jinx.

Neither act any differently— Clover still prickles at Butch, at Charon, at Fawkes, at the world— and Jinx hums along with the radio and yawns enormously during breakfast. Plops her helmet on, ignores Butch’s exaggerated wince.

“Shit, babe, you gotta take better care of your ‘do.” He cracks his knuckles, continuing as if picking up the threads of an old argument. “Some conditioner. Some kinda wrap or twist for sleeping. Something to keep the moisture in.”

“And here I thought you liked it.” She lilts her voice, waggles her fingers in front of her nose and blows a raspberry.

“The color’s great, but that’s the ‘ _bot_ ’s styling, not you. You’re absolute shit at this whole girly thing.”

“Good thing I have your macho self around to teach me what’s what.”

“Exactly— _hey_!” Butch exclaims, eyes narrowed with belated indignity. “You’re my best gal and I want you looking nice, alright?”

“She looks _great_.” Clover comes up behind Butch, raps her knuckles across his ear. A scimitar grin at Fawkes. “And she ain’t your doll to dress up anyway.”

“I am my own doll, thank you.” She stretches, rolls her shoulders back. “But sure, I’ll take a look at the products, if you got ‘em.”

“Back at Megaton, babe…”

“You took all your hair stuff out of the Vault?”

The conversation trails from there as they start traveling. Cross seems bemused by the whole thing, the skin around her eyes crinkling as she shakes her head. Her own hair is so short that Fawkes wonders if she long ago gave up on more elaborate styles.

When they leave the tunnels, Bryan shades his face against the light. Jinx tsks, pulling a battered red baseball cap from her bag.

“Here. This should help.” She adjusts the headband for Bryan as Butch checks his Pip-boy and Cross and Charon scan the area.

“Your ghoul city is nearby, correct?” Cross asks.

Charon nods, barely more than a dip of his head. Permanently at the ready, even when he declares their surroundings clear of hostiles.

Fawkes drops behind, lingering near Jinx. Overhears Cross asking if Brotherhood paladins are ‘still’ taking potshots at the ghouls. Blanches, reconsidering the Citadel and a fortress full of people who had been willing to send a teenage girl to die for them.

Charon’s response that things have gotten ‘better’ fails to reassure him.

The broad steps of the Lincoln Memorial are visible long before they reach it, as is the statue sitting in pride of place. Sandbags set up near the top provide some cover—perhaps one of the reasons for no hostiles nearby, if any had been foolish enough to attempt storming the site. But no one fires at their motley crew as they approach, and Jinx races up the steps with one elbow tucked close to her side and hand raised for balance. A familiar enough sight that a dark-bearded man in metal armor shouts her name and waves, greeting her at the top of the stairs and clasping her arm, his other about her shoulders in a loose embrace.

“Heard the news on the radio, kid. Glad you haven’t died on us yet.”

“I’m bad luck. I always come back around,” she laughs, crackling through her helmet’s distortion. “Hamlin, I got some friends I’d like you to meet.”

A round of hasty introductions, and Clover turns up her nose with a sneer. Mutters ‘bleeding heart’ under her breath, crossing her arms.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable. Just going to chat a bit,” Jinx says lightly, removing her helmet. Despite her casual air, a wrinkle forms at her brow when she glances at Clover. Her hand brushes Fawkes’, and he follows as she retreats with Hamlin. They make their way down the side, towards a small door that leads to an area that must have been used for site maintenance, now converted to headquarters.

“Hamlin, we cleared out Paradise Falls.” Her tone blunt, she cuts off Hamlin’s congratulations with a snort. “We killed the slavers, cleared out the captives. But Clover’s… special. One of Eulogy Jones’ personal slaves, and still wound up in the head.” She swallows, eyes wide and pleading. “I don’t know how to help her. She’s not— I don’t know how to _make_ her free. And she’s really, uh, _attached_ to whoever’s got her contract.” Turning her hands over, palms up in supplication, she begs, “I don’t know who else can help her. And I’m afraid if I keep her with me, I’m just gonna break her more. Run all over her and not even realize it.”

“We’ve had this conversation before about Charon,” Hamlin says, one hand to the side. Fingers curling, as if grasping something unseen.

“I don’t understand Charon, but there’s a logic to him. And he _can_ say no to things.” Jinx flushes, scratching the back of her neck. “I don’t think Clover can. She can argue and prickle, but she can’t actually refuse.”

“I cannot promise we can heal her.” Voice gentle, eyes warm, he continues. “The mind is more complicated than the body.”

“I know that, but a community— people who know what it’s like, dealing with survivors and victims and— she deserves better’n what I can give. Please.” She bites her lip, an awkward tug as she forces a smile. “She deserves so much more than what she’s gotten. She’s tough, she’s good with a gun, she’s really fierce about protecting her own. She’d be a great asset to your cause.”  A sharp laugh. “If you can get her to make a free choice.”

“You don’t have to convince me to help her.” He pats her shoulder, the skin around his eyes crinkling at her sigh of relief. “It sounds like the trick may be convincing her to stay.”

“She thinks I’m her owner. I could give you her contract, but…” Her voice trails and she chews the inside of her cheek. “It was weird enough the first time, taking the contract so she’d listen to me instead of fighting.”

“You did kill her previous owner in front of her,” Hamlin comments, voice dry and eyebrow raised.

“Doesn’t mean I did the right thing.”

“But it wasn’t what was left,” Fawkes rumbles. Wonders if Jinx brought him for absolution. Fawkes continues, despite Hamlin’s raised eyebrow. “Taking the contract was necessary at the time to prevent her from fighting, but perhaps we need not transfer it for her to accept staying here.”

“That might be easiest.” Hamlin drums his fingers against his other arm, eyes distant. “I would rather she viewed my companions and I as equals. If she needs a command, you might ask her to stay with us. If you as her ‘owner’ were to be absent for a while, that could loosen some of her attachment.” A pause. “What is the nature of her attachment, exactly?”

“She thinks she’s in love. Or lust. Something like that,” Jinx mumbles. Brushes the back of her hand across her lips.

“Then I would much rather you took her contract with you.”

Jinx nods so quickly it must be confirmation of a decision already made.

When they go outside and attempt to break the news to Clover, things go much less calmly.

“ _Bullshit_. How am I supposed to watch your ass if I’m busy with _these_ jackasses?” Clover fumes, voice rising shrill.

Bryan takes cover behind Butch as Jinx holds her hands up in mock-surrender. “They need help too. And I’ve got Fawkes, and Butch, and Dogmeat, and—”

“So you don’t need me? Is that it? So you’re gonna _make_ me stay?” Clover challenges, fists tight at her side.

“I’m not commanding you. I’m asking you. Please, stay.” Jinx breaks on the last syllable, holds her breath and bites her lip. Palms raised, fingers curled and elbows loose.

Clover glares, an ocean behind those dark eyes.

“We won’t be so far apart. Wherever I go, we’re under the same sky.” Lowering her hands, Jinx murmurs, “If you want, you can still come. But please. I am asking you to stay.”

A long pause. Three slow breaths, thirteen heartbeats.

(Both prime numbers.)

“Will you come back?”

Fawkes knows Clover would have done it without the please.

But this way, it’s a choice.

And Jinx promises yes, she’ll come back.

…

They stop by Underworld to drop Charon off, and Carol offers lunch. Bryan and Butch go stare at the dinosaur skeleton, and Cross picks up a copy of _Paradise Lost_ from Tulip. Jinx squeezes Fawkes’ hand, pulls him down for a kiss beside the stairs— and straightening up, he blushes to see Gob watching. Gob smiles liplessly, a casual shrug as he splays his hands. When Jinx stops by the Ninth Circle to say hello to Snowflake, Gob steps closer.

Fawkes opens his mouth, ready to spill apology, but Gob speaks first.

“You’re a good man. Watch out for each other out there, all right?” He picks at his sleeve, runs his thumb along the seam— a new shirt, but the same jaunty bandanna that Jinx gave him back in Megaton.

“You do not mind?” Fawkes asks awkwardly, still uncertain of Gob’s affections.

“She was never mine to mind. Just make each other happy.”

Impulsively, Fawkes opens his arms and wraps around Gob. Pats his shoulder, feels the other man’s hand against his side. They break apart after a brief moment, but the camaraderie lingers like nectar on the back of his tongue.

…

Cross parts ways at the Jefferson Memorial, giving Jinx and Bryan a warm embrace and Fawkes a clasp on the forearm. Butch hovers uncertainly, arms raised a few scant inches but not high enough for an actual hug. Cross solves his dilemma by wrapping her arms over his shoulders, patting his back.

“You are better than you give yourself credit for.”

Butch turns bright red, muttering something about ‘crazy dames’ even as a grin plasters across his face. He scuffs marks in the dirt as Jinx and Cross say their goodbyes. Cross joins one of the water distribution teams, discussing routes and trips to the Citadel as they leave.

With the water caravans and their armed escorts, there seems hardly any reason for caution as they continue south to Rivet City. Jinx plays the radio loud, singing along with Bryan and Butch occasionally belts along with the chorus. At least until the ship comes in sight, Butch letting out a low whistle that turns to gaping amazement as they climb the metal stairs opposite the entrance.

“Holy shit,” Butch says in awe, staring across the water.

“Holy _ship_ ,” Jinx corrects, flicking his ear. “That’s Rivet City. One of the nicer places in the Wasteland if you’re planning on settling down.” She jabs the intercom button, popping her helmet off. “Hey, this is Jinx! Tell Harkness to let us in!”

The bridge slides over, a rusting groan that grates up Fawkes’ spine. Big Town had been difficult enough, Megaton only slightly less so— and he does not think Rivet City’s greater size will let him blend in any more easily. At least this time he’s walking in with three allies.

The security officers eye him, but offer no  verbal warnings beyond a terse ‘watch yourself’ that Fawkes pretends could just as easily be directed at any other unknown Wastelander. Butch touches the hilt of his pistol, then pats the pocket that holds his switchblade. A worrystone of sorts, a habit that Fawkes wonders if he always had or quickly acquired upon leaving his vault.

They enter a vast indoor market, smelling of ash and sour metal, but surprisingly clean despite its vast size. Cleaner by far than any of the ruins they’ve explored, despite the obviously salvaged nature of this place. The savory smell of grilled meat wafts over, and Butch gravitates towards a booth set up as an impromptu kitchen.

Jinx squeezes Fawkes’ hand, standing on tip-toe to kiss his bicep. “Going to find Vera. Keep an eye on Butch, will you?”

He answers by pressing his lips to her scalp. Bryan waves at him, and he waves back with a curl of his fingers. The boy grins, bottle-bright smile disappearing behind the embarrassed screen of his fingers before trailing after Jinx.

If Vera does not take in her nephew… well, Fawkes thinks their Megaton home might still hold room for a child.

For now though, he turns his attention to the other young man in their keeping. Butch sits perched on the edge of a stool, happily shoveling spoonfuls of some kind of stew with chunks of meat and carrots in it. Fawkes stands next to Butch, deciding not to risk sitting, and the blonde woman behind the counter blinks in surprise before quickly recovering. Asks what he wants, and Fawkes gestures to Butch.

“Same as him, please.”

Butch grins, brown gravy smeared across one cheek. “Sure beats Moira’s cooking.” He winces, grimacing and twisting away as Fawkes attempts to wipe his face. “Hey, hey, cool it man. I got this.” A vigorous swipe of his sleeve gets rid of the offending smudge. “You ever been here before?”

Fawkes shakes his head, murmuring thanks as the server sets another bowl of stew in front of him. While hungry, he takes care to avoid making a mess. Small bites and slow chewing.

“Maybe I’ll talk with Nosebleed about it then. ‘Cuz this place… it’s pretty nice. Farther from Vault 101, but hell to those pissy bastards anyway. And not _too_ far from Megaton, least not according to the map on the Pip-Boy.” He scrapes his spoon along the bottom of the bowl, more vigor than necessary as he continues. “I mean… I like you and Nosebleed just fine, but always gonna be ‘the _other_ Vault kid’ if I hang around Megaton. And Paradise Falls deserved to get wiped, but shit.” An awkward laugh, quickly covered as Butch pulls out his comb and starts fussing at his hair. “It’d just be a mess following you guys around. And I’m gonna puke if I ever catch you two making out in that big dumb bed.”

Fawkes gives a noncommittal ‘mm’ in the back of his throat. Jinx might well be the only one to emerge unashamed from that scenario. Swallows a mouthful of potato. “If you wish. She would miss you, though. She values her friends.”

“I’d miss her too, man, but gotta do my own shit sometime. She’d always be welcome by— hell, you too. And I could catch a caravan to Megaton. Been looking at the routes.” He pulls out his switchblade, examining his hair in the blade’s reflection. Sucks his cheeks in, flicks the blade shut. “‘Slike that sappy shit she told Clover. We’d still be under the same sky, at least. And doesn’t do me any good to leave the Overseer bossing around just to let myself get bossed around by Nosebleed.” He gnaws the inside of his cheek, tilting his chin up at Fawkes. “No offense.”

“Do you plan to leave now?”

“Nah, gonna poke around first. Get her read on it, then pick up my stuff from Megaton. Move it here.” He smirks, one eyebrow rising in self-mockery. “Always complained ‘bout being a barber, but at least I got the tools for it. Place like this don’t need another guy with a gun, but might use someone good with hair.”

They continue talking until Jinx returns with a whoop, slinging one arm over Butch and the other around Fawkes’ waist. “One happy family, reunited! Though we’re still gonna have to come back to say hi…”

Bryan nods, removing the red baseball cap and twisting his hands together. “Thank you for taking me here. And here’s your hat back.”

Jinx clucks her tongue, shaking her head. “It’s a present. Just be good, eat all your vegetables okay?”

Butch reaches out to swipe the cap from Bryan, smirking as he sets it back on the boy’s head. “How d’you think you like it here?

Fawkes takes advantage of the discussion to finish eating his meal, wondering if the metal walls overhead influenced Butch’s decision. How strange the open sky must still feel after one’s entire life underground— how it _still_ feels.

Jinx must recognize the thrust to her friend’s questions, since she brightly proposes a tour of the ship. Nothing’s so strange as seeing a giggling figure in power armor running up and down the stairs, slipping through doorways and tugging Butch into introductions with everyone from a quiet woman named Mei to the stern head of security chief, Harkness.

“I see you’re still using that plasma rifle.”

”Well, what can I say? It’s still the most useful gift anyone’s given me,” she chuckles, tapping the stock with a grin.

“Taking good care of it too.” Dimples flash, a surprising softness considering the harsh line of his jaw.

She tilts her head to butt her forehead against Fawkes’ forearm. “Like any other partnership. I take care of it, it takes care of me.”

“Glad to see it.”

Jinx turns away, the little wanderer laughing as Dogmeat stands up with his paws on Bryan’s shoulders. Harkness studies Fawkes while she’s diverted, cocks an eyebrow and waits until Jinx and the two boys wander off before speaking.

“Partnership?” Still those dimples, though Fawkes cannot read his tone. Too aggressive for a mere question, but too much of a lilt for accusation.

Unsure how else to respond, Fawkes nods.

Harkness chuckles, a strange and rusty sound as he shakes his head. “She always did say being human is more than skin and flesh. Didn’t expect to see it in action.” He pauses, watching Fawkes with unblinking eyes. “Sorry if I sound pushy. She’s done… a lot for our community. Even before Project Purity. It’s good to see she has friends on the outside.”

Somehow, Fawkes doubts Harkness ever told the same to Charon.

 

Butch tells Jinx his plans, and she hugs him tight and fierce, standing on tip-toe to clamp her arms about his shoulders.

“You always got a home with us, if you need it.”

“Yeah, well, reckon it’s about time to move out on my own anyway.” He gags as she starts mock-sobbing into his ear, shoving her away. “Goddammit, Nosebleed! This ain’t the time to get all girly and shit on me!”

Wiping away invisible tears, she says, “Plenty of water caravans are heading towards Megaton, but Fawkes and I will be making one more stop at the Citadel.”

“And why ain’t I coming along?”

“Because this is a last push against the Enclave, if all goes well. Bunch of soldiers in power armor.” She thumps her chestpiece for emphasis.

Butch blanches. “But _you’re_ fighting ‘em?”

“I got power armor. Fawkes has his laser. You’d need—”

“—better equipment and an assload of experience,” he finishes. “Got the picture. I’ll hang around your house until you come back then, alright?”

They bump fists and Jinx makes arrangements for him before setting her Pip-Boy for the Citadel.

Now with only Dogmeat to judge, Fawkes murmurs, “Clover kissed you.”

“Yeah. She did.” Jinx sighs through her mouth, puffing a curl of hair out of the way.

“And you did not tell me?”

She blinks, cocking her head to the side. “Should I have? I mean—” Scuffs her feet against the ground, biting her lip with an awkward laugh. “I didn’t mean to _keep_ it from you, but just didn’t seem important. She’s got… a lot of stuff to sort out. I don’t think she even likes me, really. Just trained to be crazy for whoever holds the contract.”

“I am not offended. I merely supposed it was something you might mention.”

“Why?”

“Because we are in a relationship?”

“Oh. If somebody kissed you and you weren’t interested, it’s not something I’d think you’re _obligated_ to tell me about. I mean, if you want to. It’s not like it bothers me.” She chews her lip, giving him a sidelong peek. “Or if you kissed somebody and _they_ were interested. I love you, but it doesn’t mean I have exclusive kissing rights. Or…”

Heat mottles up his neck and the backs of his ears. “Then we are not…?” He flounders for words, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I love you. But there are a lot of reasons to hug or kiss someone. Comfort. Friendship. Just because it feels good.” She drums her fingers against the helmet she holds under her arm. “And sex too, I guess. I would want you to _tell_ me, but it’s not— I don’t think it’s a dealbreaker.” Her lips twist down as she shakes her head. “Ugh. I’m making a mess of this.” A deep breath, shoulders heaving. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Clover, but I didn’t because I didn’t think she was serious. Or that I could be serious about her, I mean. And it wasn’t more than a kiss.” She reaches out, squeezing just above his elbow. “I’ll tell you if anything like that happens again. But I’m not expecting monogamy from you either. Just honesty.”

He turns that thought over, wondering if it’s truly that simple. Easy enough for a heroic young woman to find lovers, less so for someone like him.

But she _chose_ him.

“I know we should’ve had this talk before, but… I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about it. This,” she waves to him, to her, to the entire Wasteland, “is still so new that I don’t even know what lines I’ve crossed until I reached them.”

“I would like to… meet, any others, if you expect to be intimate with them,” he finally says. Slow and halting, still processing this new realization. “Embraces do not bother me. Kissing— I suppose that does not trouble me either. But beyond that…”

“You want to meet them first?” At his nod, she gives a nervous giggle. Scratching the back of her neck, eyes carefully averted, she asks, “And if it were to be, say, all three of us in bed…?”

He gulps, lungs collapsing. Sputtering, he finally manages a shaky laugh. Pulling her by the shoulder, he wraps an arm around her. “I am not,” not excited, even if the nervous writhe of his belly feels similar, and less possessive than he would have thought, “opposed. But would still like to meet them first.”

“Okay.” She nestles close, burrowing her face into his chest with a sigh. “And no matter what, you’re still my number one.”

All the choices in the world, and he is hers.

 


	26. Free

They enter the Citadel side by side, sun on his face and an armored grin on hers. Paladin Bael is on gate duty again, but only tightens his jaw at their presence. Jinx ignores him in turn.

“Cross said this should be the last big thing Elder Lyons will ask— _should_ ask, since I’m not really his. Only reason I’m doing this is for Sarah,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low as they walk past the initiates in training. “After this, I’m my own person.”

“Aren’t you always?”

She chuckles low in her throat, hopping the raised step of the inner ring. “I guess I am. But this, well. It means something. A last goodbye to all the things my father wanted.” Her voice trails, wistful, and she breathes deep as they pass into the cool interior. Relative shadow after the relentless dry glare.

Fawkes shuts the door behind, latch clicking shut. “Are you nervous?”

“No more than I should be, considering we’re gonna be fighting an army in power armor. Again.” Laughter rattles up her throat. “I mean, I _did_ die last time. Sort of.”

“That was the radiation, not their weapons.”

“I know, but—” She stops, fingers grasping the unseen, and turns to pound her fist against the wall. “It’s _me_. This is goodbye to my dad. Not just finishing up Project Purity, but mopping up the remnants. He’d be proud of me, I bet, but him being proud— that doesn’t _matter_ any more.” Beats her fist against the wall, biting her lip and eyes scrunched. “If Sarah were here, she’d do the same. She’s— when she wakes up, she’s gonna be _pissed_ that she slept through all this. Just like I’d be. Difference is, _her_ dad’s alive, and…” Jinx hiccups, eyes suspiciously bright as she wheels to face him. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense here, but I’m doing this for _her_. Not him. And that’s something I want her to know. And that’s important for _me_ to know, that I’m making a decision. Not just doing this because I _have_ to.”

No one else in the corridor, but Fawkes steps close, shielding her face in his hands. Tastes the words on his lips before asking, “Are you afraid?”

She giggles, a mad, cracked sound like broken glass. “Yes. But that’s normal. I’m still doing this. Because I’m not letting anything— fear, guilt, shame— hold me back from doing what’s right.”

And she pulls him into a long, hard kiss. Lips crashing, a hint of teeth and then a glint in her eye as she growls,

“Let’s go kick some Enclave ass.”


	27. Epilogue: Years to Come

Butch combs his hair, aggressively watching his reflection rather than Fawkes. It takes the mutant a moment to realize the boy’s talking to him.

“Hey man. Just so you know— birthdays are kinda hard for her. Her mom died when she was born. So— dancing’s important to her.” He wets his lips, casts dark eyes towards Fawkes in the mirror. “Be good to her.”

“Always.”

“Come _on_ , you two, hurry up! Amata sent records, we got _music_ for the jukebox!” Jinx calls, silver-chime laughter in her voice. “If you don’t hurry, Maggie’s gonna eat all the cake!”

“Will _not_ ,” the girl says indignantly.

“Dammit Nosebleed!” Butch sticks the comb in his back pocket, shoving past Fawkes and stumbling through the door.

Fawkes follows, running his thumb along the buttons of his shirt. All firmly tucked, nothing undone— a needless worry, but once down Jinx flings herself into his arms in a swirl of skirts and laughter. Her hair’s natural now, a springy cloud that dances with every movement. Still dyed red, only one side shaved. Leaves a thin scar exposed, her ‘souvenir’ from Point Lookout. Tokens from the road. Her dress was yellow long before the bombs dropped, washed until it shines like sunlight, wraps her up and makes her glow. A gift from Crazy Wolfgang, dropped off two weeks ago with a whistle and a holler for the ‘pretty lady.’

Nova sits at the kitchen table, elbows on the table and chin propped on her palms. Close enough to Simms that her hip brushes his thigh. “Took your sweet time, boys.” A chipped mug, crayon-cards and prewar books sit on the table in joyful disarray, gifts from those who can only be present in spirit. Fawkes recognizes Cross’ elegant script on one of the cards, and a behemoth-sized thumbprint pressed to the card from the citizens of Big Town. A recording marked ‘Clover’ takes pride of place on top of the pile.

Only Gallows’ gift is hidden away. Another issue of _Cat’s Paw_ wedged beneath the bed, out of sight and Gallows’ note (“If you don’t like it, your monster will”) still tucked inside since Jinx laughed herself sick the first time she read it.

“Hey, takes _time_ to look this good,” Butch tosses back at Nova, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

“Cake later,” Jinx decrees. Fawkes knows that while Maggie and Billie worked on it, the white cake mix came from Kimba and the strawberry filling was courtesy of clandestine trade with Vault 101. She’s been looking forward to it, but she sweeps him along with all the certainty of a wave. “Let’s dance.”

And when Harden hits the button for ‘Papa Loves Mambo,’ Fawkes takes her in his arms and they dance for the years to come.


End file.
